


An Education

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Closeted Character, Food Issues, M/M, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 134,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Kyle is sent to a fat camp for the summer, where he falls in love with kindly junior counselor Stan and experiments guiltily with his corpulent bunkmate, Eric Cartman. Kenny, Wendy, Token, Henrietta, Butters, Clyde, Bebe, Craig and others also have a role in Kyle's life changing summer of 'health education.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my equal opportunity Stan/Kyle and Cartman/Kyle story where both relationships are screwy for different reasons.

Kyle and his mother have passed most of the long car ride from Colorado to California in tense silence, but once they near the desert where Kyle will be imprisoned for the next three months, Sheila starts babbling nervously. Kyle wonders if she's having second thoughts. He'd delayed their departure as much as possible during the packing process, hoping that she would be moved by his visible despondency and change her mind at the last minute.

"Don't forget to reapply your sunscreen every few hours or so," Sheila says. "And if you need more, just write and I'll send some."

"Why couldn't you have packed me off to some dark wood?" Kyle asks. "Why the goddamn desert, of all places? It's like you want me to roast alive."

"Kyle, you know I'm very concerned about your skin! It's just that your father and I did lots of research, bubbeh, and this place consistently had the best reviews. It's a very nurturing environment with lots of personal attention."

"Great. That's exactly what I want to do this summer, have lots of attention paid to how fat I am."

"Now Kyle, we talked about this. That's a bad word at this camp, and you shouldn't be calling yourself that anyway! There's nothing wrong with carrying a little extra weight. Look at me, I've got plenty! We just want you to learn some healthier habits, that's all. Your father and I have been so concerned."

Her voice trails off tearfully, and Kyle turns toward the passenger side window, embarrassed. Ever since puberty he's spent most of his time closed up in his room alone, often with a bag of chips or candy, usually with both. When his parents stopped buying junk for him, he started selling his essay writing talents to his classmates and used that money to fund his snacking. Toward the end of his freshman year of high school his parents found out about what he was doing and flipped their shit, so now he's on his way to fat camp, though his parents would rather call it by its advertised name: The Mackey Youth Center for Health Education.

"Mom," Kyle says when they drive past a sign for the Center at the foot of the rocky hills that surround it. His mouth gets dry and his heart starts to pound. Part of him just wants to tell her what the real problem is, the reason he hides in his room and stuffs his face until he hates himself. It's not like his parents are anti-gay, but they were so happy when he danced with Sarah Lehman at his bar mitzvah, and his mother still asks about her. Even his parents' acceptance wouldn't solve his real problem, the need to hide who he really is from everyone else in their too-small hick town, where he very well might be the only gay person of any sort. It's been bad enough being the only Jew at school.

"What, bubbeh?" Sheila reaches over to touch Kyle's knee. "I know you're nervous," she says when he stays silent. "But I think this is going to be a great experience for you. These kids will be able to relate to your situation, Kyle. You'll make some friends!"

"Sure." Except that he won't, because even if he has fatness in common with these losers, he'll still probably be the only miserably closeted gay boy there.

The camp is located in a shallow valley within the Anza Borrego desert, in a tiny non-town that contains only a few domestic residences alongside a gas station, a biker bar, a Mexican restaurant and what used to be a spa. The spa went under and has been transformed into the Youth Health Center, though their brochures claim that many of the spa's features have been kept intact. It's expensive, Kyle has gathered, and that makes him feel bad for hating it preemptively as they drive down a steep road and into the treeless desert valley.

"This looks very nice!" Sheila says when they drive up to the main entrance, through a pair of open gates that bear the place's name. "Look, the landscaping is so pristine!"

"What's there to landscape?" Kyle asks. "It's all cacti and sagebrush."

"Yes, but it's very tastefully done. And look at those wildflowers out in the hills! This is even nicer than the pictures on the website."

Kyle doesn't see any kids running around in the heat, sweating their fat asses off with whips at their backs, which is more or less what he'd feared to encounter. They drive past a large swimming pool where some younger kids are gathered around a pretty woman with black hair, and the kids don't look visibly tormented. The buildings seem well maintained from the outside, and there is a smiling young man in khaki shorts and a green polo there to greet them at the main lodge when Sheila parks the car there.

"Are you the Broflovskis?" he asks as Sheila and Kyle climb out. He's tall, handsome, and irritatingly fit. "I'm Token. I'll be one of Kyle's junior counselors while he's here. It's great to meet you!" he says, giving Kyle's hand a firm shake. Kyle grunts, feeling talked down to. This guy can't be more than four or five years older than him.

"You're bunking with the fourteen to sixteen-year-old group," Token says as he leads them into the main lobby, where the air conditioning makes Kyle shiver, though it's blazing hot outside. "We have another guy your age this summer, one a year younger, and a sixteen-year-old who's here on our scholarship program. Kyle, how about I take you over to introduce you to your bunkmates while your mom meets with Dr. Mackey for a bit?"

"Fine," Kyle says, giving his mother a look. The glance he gets in return is both sympathetic and scolding. Kyle knows exactly what will go on in this meeting with Dr. Mackey, the Center's founder and a licensed psychotherapist. Sheila will gush and cry and tell him that her son needs help, that he's eating himself to death. Dr. Mackey will calm her down and tell her that he'll turn Kyle's life around. It makes Kyle want to scream at everyone here to just leave him the hell alone, that they don't _understand_ what he is _going through_ , and the last thing he wants to do is meet three fellow fat boys, but he goes with Token while Sheila takes a seat in the waiting room outside Dr. Mackey's office.

"I'll see you at the orientation in a few hours, bubbeh!" she calls, and Kyle cringes. It's been a long time since she was unhinged enough to forget not to call him that in public. 

"So, you're from Colorado?" Token says as they make their way back out into the heat. Kyle doesn't have sunscreen on yet, and he can feel the burn of the sun instantly.

"Yeah," Kyle says when he realizes Token is waiting for a response. "South Park. I hate it there."

"Oh, well, that's too bad. I'm from L.A., and I don't really like it there much, to be honest. Once I finish school I'll probably move to the east coast."

"Cool." Kyle is aware of how chilly and petulant he sounds, but he can't seem to help it. This guy is nice, and Kyle's fatness is not his fault. Nor is his gayness. "Where is everybody?" Kyle asks. The area around the cabins is quiet and deserted.

"I'm afraid you arrived at the hottest part of the day, and that's our time for resting and classes over there at the main building that we just left. We try to limit the outdoor activities to dawn and dusk to cut down on sun exposure issues. Our setting here is beautiful but dangerous - you'll learn more about that at your orientation dinner tonight. We're having pizza!"

Kyle holds in a disbelieving scoff. He imagines thin wheat crust, broccoli for a topping, some horrific vegan cheese. If it were up to him he'd go someplace cool and dark and devour an entire deep dish extra cheese pizza with bacon and sausage, preferably while zoning out in front of Say Yes to the Dress or some similar program that would allow his brain to switch off, so that the pizza could get into his mouth on autopilot, almost guiltlessly.

"Here we go," Token says when they come to the cabin at the end of the row. "Cabin Five."

It's not a cabin so much as a little stucco villa, and Kyle's social anxiety ratchets up when he hears boys' voices from within. He's never been good at convincing people to like him, and where most kids have a best friend Kyle has always had a gaping void, nobody he can really confide in.

"Guys," Token says as they walk into the cabin, which is cool but not as frigid as the main building. There are four twin beds, two against each wall, with a small desk and chair beside each of them. The decorations are sparse, just a few desert landscape paintings in pastel colors and a woven rug that covers most of the wood floor, and there's a door in the back left corner that leads to what looks like a bathroom. "This is Kyle," Token says, presenting him to the three boys in the room. "He'll be your fourth roommate. Everyone else arrived earlier today," he says, turning to Kyle. "But don't worry, they're new, too."

"Heya!" the smallest boy in the room says, bounding over to grab Kyle's hand. He's very blond and has pink lips that look like they've recently been stained by fruit punch. "I'm Butters! Nice to meet you, Kyle!"

"Hi." Kyle doesn't see why this kid is here. He's barely twenty pounds overweight, and he's making Kyle feel huge, at least until he takes a better look at his other roommates. They're both fat as hell, especially the taller one, who also looks mean. The smaller kid stands up and walks over to Kyle for a handshake.

"I'm Clyde," he says in a ridiculously nasal voice that Kyle takes for a joke at first. "I have a colostomy bag."

"Oh," Kyle says, not sure what that is.

"Clyde has special needs," Token says, and he gives Clyde's shoulder a squeeze. "Hey, you and Kyle have that in common! Kyle had diabetes, Type 1, and he'll need to go to the medical office for insulin from time to time."

"The medical office?" Kyle says. "No, I can do the injections myself."

"I'm sure you can, but we're not allowed to let you medicate yourself without supervision. Insurance reasons and so forth. But any time you need some insulin, day or night, you let us know and we'll oversee the injection."

"Does my mother know about this?" Kyle asks, horrified.

"Um, I don't know." Token glances at the hulking boy who is still sitting on his bed. "Eric, you want to come say hi to Kyle?"

"Nah, that's okay," Eric says. He's massive, probably close to three hundred pounds and well over six feet tall. "I don't associate with ginger people."

"Eric," Token says, and the sudden firmness of his voice is attractive, an unwanted reminder that Kyle likes men. "I know you like to use humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations, but you need to consider that Kyle doesn't know you well enough yet to understand that you're joking, and you might hurt his feelings."

"Christ," Kyle says, muttering this under his breath. He won't survive three months of this kind of dialogue. Eric gives him a sneering smile.

"Oh, I'm not joking," Eric says. "I have a legitimate phobia of ginger people. You need to put him elsewhere."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Token says. "Kyle, here's your bed."

Kyle watches miserably as Token sets his things on the bed beside Eric's. He chances another look at Eric and gets another sneering smile, as if Eric is already plotting all the nasty pranks he'll play while Kyle is asleep. Kyle has never understood why some people seem to hate him on sight, but he's gotten used to it over the years.

"I'm gonna head over to the medical office and make sure Stan has all the supplies he needs," Token says. "You'll meet him at orientation - he's the counselor who will take you boys to see the nurse if you need to. I'm in charge of residence issues, and Wendy will lead your group in workouts. But you'll learn all this in orientation. Kyle, do you have your insulin on you right now?"

Kyle thinks about lying, but that would be pointless. He goes to his backpack and surrenders his medicine, feeling panicked as soon as it leaves his hands. He hasn't needed supervision with his drugs since elementary school, and he tends to check his blood sugar obsessively when he doesn't have immediate access to insulin. At least they haven't taken his lancet kit.

"I'll see you boys at the pool social in an hour," Token says. "Why don't you guys get to know each other until then? You could each tell each other three things about yourselves. It's gonna be a great summer!"

With that, and with Kyle's insulin, he leaves. Kyle turns back to the others slowly, lingering near the door. Butters is sitting on the rug with his knees tucked under him like a girl, Clyde is standing near him and Eric is still on his bed, which seems too small to contain him.

"Are they seriously going to have a pool social on the first day of fat camp?" Kyle asks, touching the flab under his t-shirt warily.

"Well, I think it's a great idea!" Butters says. "Seeing as how it's so hot here. I suppose the first thing about me is that I'm from San Diego! And let's see -- I can tap dance pretty good, and my favorite health food is apples. Clyde, you want to go next?"

"I already said one thing." Clyde is eying Kyle like he's some kind of intruder. Maybe he fears gingers, too. "About my bag."

"Can we see it?" Eric asks.

"No."

"Does it have poop in it?"

"Gross!" Kyle says. "Don't ask him that."

"Yeah, don't ask me that."

"What are your other two things, Clyde?" Butters says.

"I'm from Minnesota and I hate hot weather." Clyde sits down on his bed, which creaks under his weight. "And I don't want to be here."

"Like we do?" Eric scoffs. "Though it's not that bad compared to some of the shit I've seen." He looks at Kyle. "I've been to juvenile detention," he says, proudly. "Seen some real shit that would make you pussies cry smelly vaginal tears."

"What does that even mean?" Kyle asks, wrinkling his nose.

"If you don't know the meaning of 'real shit,' I can't explain it to you."

"What were you in juvenile detention for?" Clyde asks.

"This one kid used to pick on me, so I made him eat his parents."

"Yeah, right," Kyle says. "You expect us to believe they'd let you out if you did something like that?"

"There are ways of playing the system," Eric says. "I think you'll find that I'm very good at them." He reaches under his bed and digs a Milky Way bar out from his bag.

"Oh, that's not allowed!" Butters says.

"I know that," Eric says, unwrapping it. "And if you tell anyone I'm breaking the rules, I'll fucking kill you in your sleep, understand?" He takes a huge bite of the bar. Just the sight of it is making Kyle's stomach feel too empty. He got a stupid grilled chicken sandwich for lunch, when he'd wanted a big cheeseburger and chili fries. "I'm not actually fat," Eric says, talking with his mouth open. "My mom even says so. She only sent me here 'cause it was free."

"You're the scholarship kid?" Kyle says.

"That's right," Eric says.

"Did you get the scholarship for being the fattest kid at your school?" Clyde asks, and Kyle grins at him, but Clyde is looking at Eric as if it's a serious question.

"Ha, no." Eric finishes the Milky Way and stuffs the wrapper under his mattress. "I got it because -- because I won an obstacle course challenge. I can't run fast, but I make up for it with my super strength." He pulls up the sleeve of his XXL t-shirt and flexes. It's true that he's got a bicep, but there's lots of white flab hanging beneath it.

"I want to die," Kyle says, flopping onto his bed. "This is hell." It's the kind of sentiment he normally holds in, but he feels like he's got nothing to prove to these idiots.

"Aw, cheer up, Kyle!" Butters says. "I think it's gonna be a real fun summer, like Mr. Token said, gettin' healthy and making new friends."

"You're not even fat, you dickwad," Eric says, voicing what Kyle had wanted to say.

"Well, sure I am. My dad says that if I don't watch it I'm gonna turn into one of them guys who has to be lifted out of his house by a crane when he dies."

"Then your dad's a fucking psychopath," Kyle says, unable to hold it in. Eric laughs, and Kyle feels bad when Butters looks down at his feet, toeing the carpet. "I mean, dude, I'm paying you a compliment here," Kyle says. "You look fine."

"You're skinny," Clyde says, though Butters couldn't quite be classified as that.

"Aw, you guys are just trying to make me feel better," Butters says, and his smile returns. Eric groans loudly.

"I can't believe I have to share a room with you butt munchers," he says. "Can't wait until they stuff us with health food and this whole room smells like poisonous sharts."

"What's a shart?" Butters asks.

"It's when you shit your pants in the midst of farting, dumbass. Ask Clyde, I'm sure he knows all about it."

"Hey, shut up!" Kyle says before Clyde can. "Don't pick on him for something he can't control. And stop talking about shit. You seem unhealthily fixated."

"I'm just being practical," Eric says, unfazed. "I mean, there's a kid over there with a bag of crap attached to his leg. You can't tell me you don't find that fascinating."

"I don't!"

"You guys aren't allowed to talk about my bag. Dr. Mackey said! It's a violation of my civil rights under the, uh -- people with disabilities act."

"We're not ragging on you, dude," Eric says. "We're just curious."

"We are not!" Kyle shouted, on the verge of tears. He can't take three months of this; he'll die for real among these assholes. "Enough! Why don't you tell us three things about yourself, Eric?" He says so sarcastically; it's been five minutes and he feels like he already knows plenty about this kid.

"Well," Eric says, adjusting his hair. "My dad played for the Denver Broncos, my mom was a runner up for Miss Nebraska in 1988, and I'm pretty much the most popular kid at my school. What are your three things, _Kyle_?"

That takes Kyle off guard, and he has to think about it for a second. What the hell are his _things_ , besides school, TV, food, and jerking off to the thought of big cocks?

"I play basketball," he says, a lie. He played until he was twelve, when other boys starting having growth spurts and teasing Kyle for his height. He's grown since then, but outward as well as upward, and he's sure he would still look like a clown on the court. "And, um. I have an adopted brother who's Canadian, and I'm Jewish."

"Jews are the worst," Eric says, casually, as if Kyle will agree with him.

"Excuse me? No, we're not. Are you an anti-Semite, for real?" It's not like he's never encountered one in South Park, but usually people don't admit it to his face.

"You don't have to attach some fancy word to it. I just think your kind are annoying, that's all."

"You've met a lot of Jews, huh? In Nebraska?"

"How'd you know I'm from Nebraska?" Eric reaches under the bed and wrangles a Kit Kat bar from whatever bag he's got stowed under there. "That Token guy told you?"

"No, you did. Or I guessed as much, since you said your mom won some beauty competition there, and you look like the kind of person who lives in a soul crushing cornfield of a state."

"I suppose you're from New York?" Eric says, peeling open the Kit Kat.

"Colorado," Kyle says. He wonders if he should tell his mom that one of his roommates hates Jews. She might take him home if she finds out. "Are you just going to lay in bed and eat candy the whole time we're here? You don't want to lose any weight?" Secretly, Kyle wants to shed his very badly, but he's dreading the humiliation of physical exercise and the loss of his private cave full of junk food.

"I don't need to lose weight," Eric says. "I just told you." He breaks off one of the Kit Kat sections and tosses it at Kyle. It lands on his bed.

"What's that for?" Kyle asks, wanting to eat it very badly. He picks it up so that it won't melt onto his bedsheets.

"Nothing," Eric says. "You know, uh. You actually are the first Jew I've ever met. So it's on you if I decide I still don't like them after this."

"You're disgusting," Kyle says, and he throws the Kit Kat back. "And I don't want any of your contraband. If I'm stuck here I might as well go with the program."

"Ha! We'll see what you're saying after two days of nothing but health food."

"Can I have the Kit Kat?" Clyde asks, and Eric responds by eating it himself.

An hour later, Token comes to collect them for the social at the pool, which will proceed their orientation. Kyle slathers on sunscreen, not looking forward to standing around on the pool deck in the heat. Only Butters actually changes into a bathing suit after they confirm with Token that swimming is not mandatory, only mingling. Kyle hasn't been seen without a shirt in public for years, and he's not about to air his flab just because everyone else at the party will be fat.

This is not true, however: the junior counselors are there. There's Token, who is so chiseled and clean cut that he seems like a living brochure for the place, Wendy, the pretty girl with long black hair who Kyle spotted earlier, and Stan, who is not quite as ripped as Token or as slender as Wendy. He's slouchy but strong-looking and extremely cute, lingering in the golden twilight between teenaged boyishness and rugged manhood.

At first Kyle's notice of Stan is shaded by the usual jealous longing to look that good himself. Fuck guys like that and their ease with people, the effortless way they carry themselves, and their straight, shiny hair. But there's also something about counselor Stan that isn't so confident and carefree. Kyle can't put his finger on it, and he also can't stop watching Stan as he lingers at Wendy's side, seeming almost nervous himself as he greets the awkward campers.

"Welcome!" Wendy says when they make their way over to the Cabin Five group. "You guys are our oldest campers, so we'll be looking to you to set a good example for the youngsters. Do you think you can do that?"

"Absolutely!" Butters says. Kyle, Eric and Clyde remain silent.

"Excellent!" Wendy says, clapping her hands together. "Like I said when you guys came in, I'm Wendy and I'll be leading this group's exercises in the mornings and evenings. Working out twice a day will make you feel great, and I promise to make it fun, too. This is Stan, our newest counselor." She glances at him. "Stan? You want to say something about yourself?"

"Oh, yeah, um." Stan touches the pockets on his khakis. He's wearing pants, not shorts, and Kyle thinks he must be hot. His cheeks and nose are slightly sunburned. "Hi, I'm Stan, I'm from Sacramento. I go to UC Davis. I like, um. Music, and cooking, and I played football for a long time -- uh, I'm studying to be a phys ed teacher, and this is my summer internship. And it's great to meet you guys," he adds hurriedly, after glancing at Wendy.

"And you guys have met Token, of course," Wendy says, gesturing to him. He's standing near the pool with some of the younger kids, encouraging them to toss a beach ball to each other. "If Dr. Mackey is busy and you need someone to talk to, please don't hesitate to come to one of us! We're all going to become great friends before the summer is over."

Eric snorts, and Wendy shoots him a look that visibly withers him.

"Have you guys met the girls from Cabin Ten?" Wendy asks, indicating a sorry looking group of teenagers who are sitting with their feet in the in-ground jacuzzi at the back of the pool deck. None of them are in swim suits, not even the blond one, who is even more out of place here than Butters, merely busty with big hips. "You should go introduce yourselves!" Wendy says when she's met with blank stares. "They're your age, and you'll be doing your workouts and classes with them."

"Can we be romantically involved with them?" Clyde asks, and Eric laughs.

"Well--" Wendy glances at Stan uncertainly. "I don't know if I've had that question before. But the issue could certainly come up. Why don't we discuss that with Dr. Mackey tonight, at orientation? Good question, Clyde!"

"I'm sure it'll be a pressing concern for a ladies man like yourself," Eric says, still snickering.

"Let's try to have a positive, encouraging attitude toward each other, okay?" Wendy says, and then she moves on, Stan trailing after her like she's training him to wait tables.

"Should we go talk to the girls?" Butters asks.

"Fuck no," Eric says. "Bitches ain't shit."

"Suit yourself," Clyde says. "That blond one is hot."

"Why is she here?" Kyle asks, resenting the fact that people like her and Butters are allowed into the mix of otherwise serious cases like himself. "She's not even chubby."

"Let's find out," Clyde says, and he makes his way toward the jacuzzi, Butters following. Kyle and Eric exchange a glance.

"I don't like girls," Eric says.

"Yeah, I heard."

"No, I mean." Eric glances around, then looks back at Kyle. "I like dick. It's 'cause of juvey," he adds hurriedly. "It warped my fragile little mind at a young age."

“That's not how being gay works.”

“And you'd know, huh?”

Eric smiles slowly, watching the blush spread across Kyle's cheeks. Kyle turns and heads over to the girls before Eric can voice his understanding. Only when he's taken a few steps away does he truly absorb the fact that he just heard another guy toss off a casual statement about liking dick, never mind the implication that it's due to some kind of juvenile lockup trauma. It's probably just a joke at Kyle's expense, but Eric seemed oddly sincere, and Kyle doesn't consider himself obvious enough for Eric to have guessed at his gayness before he went incriminatingly red just then. He'd expected to start puking in terror if anyone ever figured out his orientation, especially some loud mouthed bully like that, but he's more confused than alarmed by that whole exchange.

When he reaches the jacuzzi, Clyde is standing in red-faced silence while Butters prattles on about his tap dancing career.

"Oh, hey, Kyle!" Butters says, clutching Kyle's arm as if they're old friends already. "Girls, this is our other roommate, Kyle. He's a basketball player and he's Jewish. Kyle, this is Henrietta--" Butters gestures to the biggest of the four girls, who is decked out in Goth attire and wearing heavy makeup. "And that there is Bebe--" He points to the curvy blond, who smiles and waves. "Rebecca--" This one, squat and thick with lots of frizzy brown hair, just stares at Kyle blankly. "And Tammy!"

"Hey," Tammy says, kicking her feet in the water. She's wearing a too-small shirt, a roll of belly fat visible below the hem. She's got terrible highlights and big hoop earrings. "I am so excited for this shit," she says. "I got in on the low income program, and it's like, my dream. I used to be super hot when I was twelve. Can't wait to get skinny again."

"The low income program?" Kyle says, and he glances over at Eric, who is watching them hatefully from the other side of the pool. "Is that what they call a scholarship?"

"Yeah, a scholarship." Tammy smiles. "What's with that big guy over there?"

"He's just in a little bit of a bad mood," Butters says. "He'll come around, though, once we all settle in a bit more. You girls don't want to go swimming?" There are only a few kids in the pool, mostly from the youngest cabins.

"Fuck swimming," Henrietta says. "Fuck this whole place. Do you guys have any cigarettes? They took mine."

"They took my insulin," Kyle says, and Tammy laughs, for some reason.

"I don't think cigarettes are allowed," Butters says.

"What the hell is your problem?" Henrietta asks, glaring at him. "I don't give a fuck about the rules, you conformist dick."

"Hey, c'mon," Kyle says, because Butters looks like he's going to cry.

"If you think about it," Rebecca says. "Consuming nicotine is actually a very conformist thing to do. You're adhering to standards of rebellion and coolness that are merely marketing campaigns by tobacco corporations, supported in part by mainstream Hollywood characterizations of rebellious characters."

"Yeah!" Kyle says, relieved that someone here seems to have half a brain. Rebecca is pressing the tips of her fingers together incessantly, and her voice is kind of strange, but that's okay.

"Go to hell," Henrietta says.

"Guys," Bebe says. "Stop. We have to live together for three months."

"Why are you here?" Clyde blurts, too loudly, and everyone stares at him. "I mean. You're not fat."

"What?" Bebe goes very red and touches her waist, which is actually rather trim. "Yes, I am. I have E cups."

"So get a fucking breast reduction," Henrietta says. "I'm totally getting one as soon as I'm eighteen. I hate these things."

"Mine are kinda big," Tammy says, grabbing her breasts and weighing them in her hands. "But they'll be perfect after I dump some of this water weight."

"Excuse me," Clyde says, and he walks away, heading toward the bathrooms that are adjacent to the pool deck.

"Where's he going in such a hurry?" Tammy asks, watching him shuffle into the boy's room.

"I think he had an erection," Rebecca says, and Tammy guffaws, still holding her boobs.

"Not necessarily," Kyle says, embarrassed on Clyde's behalf. He has never and will never understand the appeal of breasts, but if some guys had been discussing the size of their cocks, Kyle might have been similarly affected. "Clyde has, uh. A condition."

"What kind of condition?" Rebecca asks.

"It's, you know. Digestive."

"He has a bag," Butters says. "But don't mention it, he's real sensitive."

"A bag?" Henrietta says, and she scoffs. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Let's just stay out of it," Bebe says. "Jesus, I don't want to know."

"My thoughts exactly," Kyle says.

"Well, I'm curious," Rebecca says. "But I still believe that what I witnessed was the outline of an erect penis."

"Ew!" Tammy says, laughing. "Don't call it that!"

"What should I call it?"

"I don't know! A dick, a cock, a boner--"

"I'm gonna get some water," Kyle says, bolting for the cooler.

The pool party breaks up soon after that, the counselors herding everyone into the main building for orientation. Before they make their way into the auditorium where the illustrious Dr. Mackey will address them, everyone files into the cafeteria for pizza. It smells good, but Kyle doesn't want to get his hopes up.

"Guys, this is Kenny," Wendy says, shouting this to the group of thirty or so kids of various ages who comprise this summer's campers. She's talking about a man in an apron who is waving to them from behind the cafeteria's buffet line, holding a pizza cutter in his other hand. He's young, around the age of the junior counselors, blond and kind of cute, though greasy-looking and sporting a bad haircut that is just shy of being a mullet. "He'll be serving you your meals this summer," Wendy says. "We only eat here, in the dining room, and that includes the afternoon snack following your nutrition class. You'll meet our nutritionist at orientation. Until then, enjoy your pizza!"

"I can't wait to see this shit," Eric says. He's somehow come to be standing beside Kyle in line. Tammy is in front of them, visibly primping, as if she wants to impress Kenny the cafeteria worker. "Health pizza," Eric says, pronouncing the words like they're the title of a horror movie. Kyle eyes him warily, waiting to be teased about his reaction to Eric's bizarre dick-liking admission, but Eric just frowns like he's annoyed by Kyle's staring.

"It actually looks okay," Kyle says as they get closer to the front of the line, in sight of the pizza.

"Thin crust," Eric says, and he groans. "I wish I could order some goddamn Domino's to this place. Maybe I'll figure out a way."

"Why'd you even come if you're just going to sabotage their efforts to help you at every turn?"

"Because I don't need help," Eric says sharply. "And have you ever spent the summer in Nebraska?"

"No."

"Well, it fucking sucks."

Kyle bites down on the impulse to ask Eric why he'd want to leave his friends for the summer, if he's the most popular kid in school. He resists the temptation to call Eric out on that obvious lie and watches him collect his plate from Kenny.

"Two slices?" Eric says incredulously. "We can come back for more, right?"

"I'm afraid not," Wendy says from behind them, startling Kyle. "The portions will take some adjusting to, but in just a few weeks you'll feel perfectly satisfied after every meal, I promise."

"Shove your promises up your ass, bitch," Eric mutters after Wendy has wandered off. Kenny grins and winks at Kyle as he slides another thin piece of pizza under Eric's first two.

"Keep that under wraps, you hear?" he says, and Eric boggles at him.

"Thanks, dude," he says, and he hurries off with his bounty.

"Just two for me," Kyle says, irritated by this.

"Right on," Kenny says. "Cool hair, bro."

"Uh. Thanks."

Kyle makes his way over to the table where the Cabin Five boys are sitting with the Cabin Ten girls. He's surprised that the two groups are willing to sit together after that initial confrontation, but supposes their only alternatives are little kids or loathsome middle schoolers.

"How is it?" Kyle asks, taking a seat beside Eric, who has already devoured his first piece of pizza, possibly on the way to the table to conceal the extra slice from the others.

"It ain't no Domino's," Eric says. "But it's surprisingly decent."

"I think it's yummy!" Butters says. Clyde seems to agree, since he's stuffing down the last bite of his two slices. The toppings are grilled chicken and spinach, but the cheese is normal and the taste isn't bad. Kyle eats his portion quickly, wishing that he'd caved and allowed Kenny to give him a third slice.

"I'm still hungry," Rebecca says when she's finished. "Aren't they going to give us fruit for dessert or something?"

"Here," Bebe says, and she shoves her second piece of pizza onto Rebecca's plate. "You can have mine. I only want one."

"I feel strange about this," Rebecca says, but she eats Bebe's second piece anyway. "Perhaps now would be a good time to mention that I have no desire to lose this weight. I eat what I want without devoting much mental energy to it, but I don't think it's a problem. My parents disagree, and I am their prisoner for two more years, so here I am."

"Can I have your crust?" Tammy asks, because Bebe has left hers on the plate. "Wait, no!" she says when Bebe picks it up. "Never mind. I'm going to be good." She stares at the crust glumly until Henrietta snatches it and eats it in two bites.

Kyle surveys the dining room, looking over at the counselors' table. Wendy, Stan and Token are eating the pizza, too, and Kenny has joined them, his plate piled high with slices. Wendy seems to chastise him for this, but Kenny is rail thin and could probably use the calories. Kyle hears her saying something about setting an example. Kyle focuses his attention on Stan, who is zoning out while he chews his pizza, his eyes unfocused as the others argue among themselves. He has very nice arms, probably from football. They're tanned and covered in black hair, just the way Kyle likes.

When the pizza has been consumed they're all ushered into the auditorium where Dr. Mackey and their parents are waiting. Kyle goes to sit with his mother, embarrassed by how glad he is to see her after a day spent with strangers. She looks like she's been crying, but she smiles widely and tries to kiss his cheek. Kyle leans away and grunts, annoyed by the fact that she certainly spent the whole afternoon weeping and telling the asshole up on stage how worried she is about her little boy.

"Mmkay, I think we're all getting settled in, that's good," Dr. Mackey says. He's even skinnier than Kenny, almost frail-looking except for his head, which looks disproportionately large from where Kyle is sitting. "I just want to officially welcome everybody, parents and students, to the start of our summer program for youth health education. Let's all give each other a round of applause just for being here, mmkay? Go - go on, a round of applause," he says, clapping first when everyone else hesitates. Sheila and the other parents join in, along with most of the younger kids. Kyle and the rest of his age group stays motionless, except for Butters, who claps enthusiastically. Kyle glances over at Eric to see the former beauty queen and football star he claims to have for parents, but there's only a woman with a prim bun and lace collar sitting beside him. She does look like someone who might have competed in beauty pageants when she was younger, which makes Kyle realize that Eric would actually be cute if he wasn't so lumpy and crude. He wonders where Eric's dad is; maybe he had to work. Gerald is at home with Ike, and Kyle is glad that they didn't come along. There are certain humiliations he would rather endure only in the company of his mother.

"I just really want to commend all of our incoming students for dedicating three months of their lives to their health education," Dr. Mackey says. "I think it's going to be a really wonderful experience for all of us."

He drones on, listing rules and goals and mission statements. Kyle feels a little loopy and jerks in his seat when he realizes why.

"I left my blood sugar kit in the cabin," he whispers.

"Oh, Kyle, you can't do that!"

"I know, okay, and I didn't mean to! Now I -- Mom, I don't feel good. They gave us pizza, and--"

"Shh, shh, alright--"

"And they took my insulin!"

"I know, bubbeh, they explained about that. Why don't you go ask that nice girl to help you out?" She gestures toward Wendy, who is sitting in the back with Stan and Token, paying rapt attention while Token examines his phone and Stan picks spinach from his teeth. "Go on," Sheila says. "I'll stay for the rest of this thing and fill you in on anything you miss. Tell them you need to get your kit and do your injection."

Kyle feels stupid as he approaches the counselors, several people in the audience turning to stare at him, Eric included. Stan looks up first.

"You okay?" Stan says, and the other two turn to him.

"Um," Kyle says. "I, uh, I forgot my blood sugar kit? And I don't feel good, I think I need insulin."

"Stan, take him to the nurse's station," Wendy says. She seems irritated. "Belinda has left for the day, but -- you can do your own injection, right?"

"Of course," Kyle says, and he shrinks when he hears how annoyed he sounded by that question. Wendy is kind of scary.

"Just go with him and write everything down, like we discussed," Wendy says, and Stan gets up. "I'm serious, Stan, they could get sued if you don't keep a log of his levels or whatever."

"I know," Stan says. He puts his hand on Kyle's back and guides him toward the door. "C'mon, dude," he says, and adds, "You gonna be okay?" as they leave the auditorium.

"I don't know," Kyle says. "Probably. I just need -- my stuff." He feels like he'll faint, either from unbalanced blood sugar or the heat of Stan's hand, which leaves him too quickly.

They push out of the main building, the sunlight fading behind the hills. It's warm outside, but not sweltering like before. Stan keeps close on the walk to the nurse's station, as if he's afraid he'll have to catch Kyle when he collapses. Kyle hopes that won't happen, but he feels fuzzy, almost as if he's dreaming, the desert landscape like an alien planet. He can smell Stan's sweat, and his own.

"A rabbit!" Kyle says when a little brown bunny crosses the stone path they're walking on. He looks to Stan, hoping he didn't just hallucinate that, and Stan smiles.

"Oh, yeah, those guys are all over the place. Jack rabbits, too, big ass ones. You'll see them."

A lizard darts into a bush as they approach it, increasing Kyle's feeling that he's sleepwalking across a fever dream, the whole camp bathed in a hazy glow as the sun begins to go down.

"We've got coyotes all over this valley," Stan says. "They won't bother you unless you're alone and they're in a big pack, and they tend to stay off the property, except for the golf course."

"Golf course?"

"Yeah, it's out there by the old restaurant." Stan points. "From when this place was a spa. Mackey keeps it maintained so he can play. I think golf is lame, myself."

"Me too," Kyle says. It feels good to agree with this guy about something. "Do we need to get my blood sugar stuff from my room?" Kyle asks when Stan veers left, toward the building that's labeled 'NURSE.'

"Nah, I've got one in here. We had to get everything ready for you, all the supplies." He digs a set of keys out from his pocket and flips through them, unlocking the nurse's station door when he finds the right one. Kyle follows him in, feeling lightheaded as he moves from the glowing warmth outside to the shady cool of the closed up nurse's station. "I guess we'll be in here a lot," Stan says. "Craig said you should have a shot four times a day, before meals."

"Craig?" Kyle walks around the small front room in the nurse's station, which contains an examining table and chest full of drugs that Stan is rummaging through. Stan hasn't put the lights on; there's enough from the windows, all the blinds open.

"Craig's the nutritionist," Stan says. "He's a real asshole, pardon my French."

Kyle snorts, because he's never actually heard someone say that after cursing. Stan turns to grin at him, holding a lancet kit.

"There you go," he says when he brings it over. "I'll get your pen from the fridge."

Hands shaking, Kyle does a reading and determines that he needs to take insulin, as he suspected. He feels weird uncapping the pen and lifting up his shirt while Stan watches. Stan is doing a nervous kind of dance as he watches Kyle inject himself.

"Does it hurt?" Stan asks.

"Not really."

"I'm not big on needles."

"Well. I guess most people aren't, but you get used to it." He hands the pen back to Stan. "Are you going to write down how much I took?"

"Oh, shit, yeah. They gave me a log book for you. You want some water or something?"

Kyle nods, and he Kyle back against the wall behind the examining table and shuts his eyes, smiling to himself while Stan fetches the water. He likes the idea that Stan has a log book just for him.

"You can rest a while," Stan says while Kyle drinks his water. "You look kinda pale."

"I always look pale, but thanks."

Stan wanders around the room while Kyle stays slumped on the examining table. There's a very bright, new-looking tennis ball sitting on one of the chairs against the opposite wall. Stan picks it up and tosses it in the air a few times.

"Hey, Kyle," he says.

"What?"

"Catch."

Stan lobs an easy throw to him, and Kyle feels himself smiling stupidly. He throws the ball back, glad that the room is small and the weakness of his arm won't be too evident. They exchange throws for a few minutes in silence, and Kyle's energy begins to return, his thoughts sharpening.

"You know," Stan says. "I think this whole thing is kind of weird and creepy. Not you guys, but the whole idea. Mackey, and all of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just, I don't know. Only a few of the kids here really look like they need, uh. A lifestyle change, you know?"

"Yeah, like me," Kyle says, going dark.

"No, man, not like you. You just look like you have baby fat. The kind that comes off with time. I meant like that big huge guy who sat next to you at lunch, and that Goth girl. And even then, it's like, so? Let them figure it out, they're not dumb. People just think kids are so dumb."

"Wendy," Kyle says, and Stan grins.

"Nah, she doesn't mean to come off that way. I've known her since she was five. She got me this job. She's always been like that."

"Oh." Kyle feels jealous, hearing this. Also slightly insane, as if he has any hope of even befriending this guy who is charged with babysitting him.

"I want to teach," Stan says. "Work with kids, you know, and actually show them some respect. I ended up in this phys ed program because I played ball in school, but, I don't know. Football coaches are usually real hard asses. Mine always were. I don't know if I can do that. Sometimes I'm like, maybe I could teach music? But I'm not that good at it, I can only play the guitar a little. Football, I was good at. I wanted to be in the marching band, though, sometimes. I was jealous of them. Sorry, I keep talking."

"You can talk," Kyle says, his heart lifting a bit more with every word. "I don't mind."

"You'll see how it is," Stan says. "Wendy and Token, they mean well. Mackey, too, but he's a weirdo. Craig -- that guy can suck my dick."

Kyle fumbles the ball, hearing this. Stan laughs and retrieves it from the floor.

"Sorry," he says.

"That's okay." Kyle is trying very hard not to imagine what sort of dick this beautiful man possesses, and what sort of noises he might make while someone -- Kyle, anyone -- sucked him off.

"We'd better go back," Stan says. He throws the ball hard against the wall and catches it on the bounce. "Orientation's probably almost over."

The sundown matures into a deeper orange as they make their way back to the main building. Kyle wants to grill Stan on everything he said in the nurse's station, particularly the part where he seems to think Kyle isn't actually fat. That can't be true; he's just being nice. Kyle is forty pounds overweight, and he feels every ounce of it with every move he makes.

"How old are you?" Kyle asks.

"Nineteen," Stan says, and Kyle's spirits lift, because somehow the difference between fifteen and nineteen is miniscule compared to the difference between fifteen and twenty, though he doubts Stan would see it that way. Even if they were the same age, Stan would be well out of Kyle's league. He feels feverish with desire all the same, and has to stop himself from sitting beside Stan when they reenter the auditorium. Mackey is introducing the nutritionist, Craig, who is a dour-looking man, thin and pale, younger than Mackey. He's wearing a turtleneck and slacks, as if he's missed the fact that they're in the fucking desert.

"Nutrition," Craig says when he's taken the podium, and for a while he just lets that hang there as he peers sternly out at the audience. "It's easy to take for granted, and hard to live a full life once you have. It's also difficult for those who have overindulged for years to embrace moderation. This is why I believe in absolute strict adherence to a rigorously balanced diet in the first three months of the transition to healthy living. That will of course coincide with your time here. There will be no leniency. No breaks, no holidays, no treats. However, as you have now experienced, the diet I have designed for you children is not only palatable but undeniably delicious."

He pauses there, his stony gaze sweeping across the room as if he dares anyone to challenge him on this point.

"Parents," Craig says. "I will not tolerate attempts to send food to your children. Even if, in your lay opinion, that food is healthy -- it cannot interfere with the balance of the three month diet. Packages that arrive here will be searched thoroughly before they are delivered to campers. I once found a tin of Altoids stuffed into what initially appeared to be an unopened six pack of tube socks. I could smell peppermint -- I knew something was amiss. I don't care if the things have only three or four calories per mint. In this situation, one toe over the line could spoil the entire effect. These are not children who eat according to serving sizes, and twenty Altoids later they might as well have eaten a peanut butter cup. Your child will be expelled immediately if contraband is discovered on his person. Thank you."

Craig walks away from the podium, allowing a heavy silence settle over the room. Kyle hears Sheila scoff under her breath.

"Mmmm-kay," Mackey says slowly as he returns to the podium, watching Craig exit the stage. "Well, as you can see, we all take your health very seriously. And I just want to close here by telling you all that your goals are attainable, and that we're going to do everything in our power to help you reach those goals. At the end of the summer, when you're healthy and happier than ever before, we're all gonna have a big cry together over how far you've come. Now let's all come up to the stage for our group photo. We take one at the start of the summer and one at the end."

Kyle feels stupid, filing up to the stage with the other fatties. In the quiet of the nurse's station with Stan and that tennis ball, Kyle had felt like maybe Stan could be right about Kyle's extra weight just being some baby fat that would effortlessly disappear, but now that he's up on stage posing for the group 'before' picture, he feels it acutely: he's been lumped in with these kids for a reason. These are his people, this sad tribe, and not a single one of them wants to belong here, in the 'before' picture that is their lives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this update took forever and I apologize. I agonized over this chapter for reasons I don't fully understand, so please leave me a note with suggestions for improvement if you have them! I really like the concept for this story and have hope that it will be easier to write now that I've gotten over this second chapter hurdle that gives an outline of the day to day camp schedule and some other dynamics. Many thanks to Julads for helping me with revisions along the way!

Kyle is not accustomed to waking before dawn, and based on the groans and curses coming from the other beds, he assumes that Clyde and Eric aren't either. Butters, however, hops out of bed like a soldier ready for his morning drills. Wendy has entered the cabin to wake them, and she's holding an actual lantern with a candle inside. The thing makes her look like she should be wearing a hooded initiation robe, but she's dressed in a pine green MACKEY YOUTH CENTER tank and tight black pants. Kyle blinks at the wall clock as his eyes adjust. It's two minutes after six in the morning, still dark outside and uncomfortably cool in the room.

"I've got a special surprise for you guys!" Wendy says.

"What the hell is this?" Eric asks when he sits up in bed, his hair impressively disordered.

"It's a surprise," Wendy says, more flatly. "And you guys are going to love it. You need to get used to waking up this early, because we start our workouts at sunrise. Aren't you excited to watch the sunrise?" she asks, turning to Kyle, who can't even comprehend what she's talking about, still groggy and confused by this woman's sudden presence in the middle of their cabin. Kyle didn't sleep well, restless with anxiety about this whole experience and irritated by the various sounds of the other boys, and by the very knowledge of their too-close presence. He's never shared a room with anyone before.

"Are you going to watch us get dressed?" Clyde asks Wendy, pulling his blankets up to his chin.

"Of course not," she says. "I'll step out. Put on the uniforms in the top drawer of your wardrobe." She indicates Kyle's, which is under the desk surface, three drawers built in on the right side. "They should fit you perfectly, since your parents sent your measurements ahead of time. But in a couple of weeks I think you'll find that they're pretty loose! Alright, meet me outside in five minutes."

As Wendy exits, Butters is already rifling through his camp wardrobe. Kyle hasn't examined his yet, and he slumps over to the top drawer to do so. Today's getup is similar to what Wendy was wearing: a green t-shirt with the Mackey logo and a pair of stretchy black pants that look like they'll fit tightly. They're allowed to wear their own socks and sneakers. Kyle is shivering as he changes in the dark, glad that no one has put the lights on. Eric is still in bed, and Clyde is in the bathroom. Butters is doing up the laces on his sneakers.

“What do you think the surprise will be?” Butters asks when Kyle searches his bag for his own shoes, yawning.

“Probably some total bullshit,” Eric says. “Like a spinach smoothie.”

“You'd better get ready,” Kyle says to him. Eric snorts as if this is ridiculous, but he throws his blankets off and goes to his drawer, groaning as if he's in agony and scratching at himself. Clyde emerges from the bathroom and closes the door behind him, looking nervous. Kyle has to pee, and he braces himself for whatever remnants of Clyde's morning routine are lingering in there. 

When they're all dressed they file outside, where the hills that surround the valley have begun to glow faintly with the promise of daybreak. Wendy is still carrying the lantern, though the path is illuminated by in-ground lights that are placed among the landscaped cacti. Kyle has been too overwhelmed to fully take in the landscape until now, and as he wakes fully he surveys the surrounding hills and the peaceful quiet of the grounds. It's nice, he has to admit, spa-like. He wonders how much his parents are paying, then worries that they'll feel they didn't get their money's worth if he doesn't come back chiseled and strong, or at least significantly thinner.

He's disappointed when they arrive at their destination: not the indoor gym or even the pool, but a circular clearing at the edge of the camp's property, looking out toward the pristine golf course and the nature preserve that abuts the dusty little town. Some soft, soothing music is playing, but Kyle can't locate its source. There are mats spread out on the sandy floor of the clearing, four of them already occupied by the girls from Cabin Ten. Henrietta is lying down on hers, and she appears to be asleep, her arms crossed over her sizable chest. Bebe and Tammy wave, and Rebecca doesn't seem to notice or care about their approach. She's bent over a book, reading it by the light of kind of miner's head lamp device.

“The surprise,” Wendy says, smiling as she walks to a mat that faces the other eight. “Is sunrise yoga!”

Some among the group groan. Kyle isn't too thrilled himself. Balance and flexibility are not among his talents.

“Guys, really,” Wendy says. “Open your hearts to this experience. Look around you – boys, take a mat. Notice how the desert is beautiful at sunrise. It's glowing, see, coming to life? Just take a minute to sit quietly and breathe. Rebecca, please put that away. The light, too. Thank you.”

Kyle tries to mimic the positions that Wendy demonstrates as much as possible, but his balance is not very good. The energy required seems minimal, and he's surprised when he starts to sweat. Butters and Bebe are the most successful at contorting themselves and holding the poses. Kyle tries not to resent this, focusing instead on his own work, and sometimes glancing over at Eric, who is hopelessly unwieldy and impatient with Wendy when she tries to direct his movements. Kyle feels almost bad for him, but he does enjoy it when Eric topples over in a shaky heap after trying to balance on one foot.

The group heads to breakfast afterward, red-faced and sweaty, their limbs still trembling. Kyle falls into step beside Rebecca, trying to avoid Eric, who always seems to zero in on him.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to her book and head lamp, which she's carrying now. The sun has come up; it's already getting hot, though it can't be later than seven AM.

“It's a silly little thing,” Rebecca says, passing him the book. “A summertime diversion.”

“Neither Brain nor Ghost,” Kyle reads from the cover. “A Non-Dualist Alternative to the Mind-Brain Identity Theory.”

“I like to read this kind of garbage when I'm not in school,” Rebecca says, reclaiming the book with a shrug. “To give myself a holiday from more serious thinking.”

“That's garbage?” Kyle says, not even sure what the subject matter is.

“Well, yes. I think most modern psychological larks like this are, don't you?”

“Sure.” Kyle is beginning to regret asking. He's either embarrassingly out of his depth or she's slightly nuts; possibly both. “What, uh. Where do you go to school?”

“I'm home schooled,” she says, apparently without shame.

“Ah. Cool.”

“Kyle!” Wendy calls, rescuing him from the conversation. She points to the nurse's station, which is up ahead. “This is your pit stop. Go take your medicine before we eat.”

Kyle obeys eagerly, hoping to find Stan inside. Instead there is a willowy older woman in pine green scrubs and Craig, the nutritionist. He's leaning against the examining table and frowning.

"Are you Kyle Broflovski?" he asks. Kyle wants to say that he's not. He glances at the nurse, who seems equally humorless.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "That's me."

"Good. I'm going to oversee your insulin intake this summer. Not personally, not every day, but generally I'm going to monitor what you take. I've got my most trusted intern on the job."

"Stan?" Kyle says, surprised that Craig trusts him, considering that Stan said that Craig could suck his dick. Perhaps Kyle misinterpreted that remark.

"He's late," Craig says, glancing at a watch that looks expensive. He's again wearing clothing much too heavy for the desert in summer: a blazer over black jeans and a t-shirt. "Nurse, will you get the supplies? I have a consultation in five minutes."

Kyle wonders if this woman is offended that Craig refers to her as 'nurse,' which implies that he doesn't know or care to know her name. He takes his insulin and listens to Craig's promises that regulating it strictly might be the key to his weight loss problems. Kyle nods politely, half wanting to tell Craig that he ate a full size bag of Cheetos in one sitting a couple of weeks before he came here. It's possible, he supposes, that his insulin intake is affecting his appetite, but his drive to get to the bottom of a Cheetos bag has never felt like hunger so much as miserable boredom and pervasive despair.

Stan enters while Craig is still talking, Kyle barely listening. Stan looks half asleep, bags under his eyes and his hair still wet. Kyle smiles at him hopefully, but Stan is looking at Craig.

"You're late," Craig says.

"Sorry. My alarm--"

"Mr. Marsh, the entire premise of this organization is predicated upon order. That's what these children lack, and what they need. I've selected you to oversee this particular special needs child because the more -- demanding one is being overseen by Mr. Black, and, as you know, your friend Wendy and I don't exactly get along."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Please assure me that this won't happen again. I don't have time to personally stand and watch every injection."

"You won't have to." Stan glances at Kyle, looking guilty. "It won't happen again. I'll get Wendy to fix my alarm."

Kyle wonders if Stan and Wendy are sleeping together. Probably. They have a sibling-like resemblance but they look good together nonetheless.

Craig breezes out to go to his appointment and the nurse steps into the little office adjacent to the front room, leaving Stan and Kyle alone together. Stan shakes his head slowly, holding Kyle's gaze.

"That guy," Stan says, quietly, because the nurse's office door is open.

"He said you're his most trusted intern," Kyle says. Stan snorts.

"I'm the only intern. Token and Wendy are actual employees. They get benefits and everything."

"Oh. Craig said Token was in charge of the other special needs kid?"

"Yeah." Stan moves closer to the examining table, where Kyle is still sitting, swinging his legs. "Apparently there's a kid here who has, like. Some real issues."

"Really?" Kyle immediately thinks of Eric.

"I don't know the specifics, but he has, like. Bathroom issues."

"Oh! Clyde. Yeah, he's in my cabin. He told me about his colostomy bag when we first met. It was like the second thing he said to me, after his name."

"Wow." Stan looks kind of queasy. "Poor guy. I guess he wanted to get it out of the way, uh. Since you'll be living together. How do you like your cabin mates?"

"I don't," Kyle says, and he's glad when Stan smiles instead of giving him a lecture about positivity. He almost mentions the weirdness with Eric, then decides that would be too much information at this juncture. "Do I need to go to breakfast or something?"

"Oh -- shit, yeah. I'll walk you."

It's gotten hotter outside since Kyle entered the nurse's station ten minutes ago. He wonders if Stan would accompany back to his cabin and keep him company while he applied sunscreen, and decides not to push it.

"Did Wendy make you do yoga this morning?" Stan asks as they walk, Kyle keeping an eye out for the lizards that occasionally hop from the path into the sagebrush.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "It was -- okay. I'll probably be sore."

"I love yoga," Stan says, which surprises Kyle, though he's not sure why.

"Really?"

"It's like, peaceful? I don't know. It's like the inverse of football."

He keeps bringing up football, and Kyle wonders if he should inquire further, but he's afraid it will be like asking Rebecca about her book. He'd be clearly out of his depth before the conversation could really begin.

"What's up with that lantern?" Kyle asks after a stretch of silence that feels awkward.

"Huh?"

"Wendy had a lantern this morning, um. She came into our cabin with it and brought it to yoga." 

"Oh, yeah. She does stuff like that. She was telling me last night about how she wants this to be a 'total experience' for you guys. Not just working out and eating right but, like, rediscovering the positivity of the world, or something." 

"Jesus," Kyle mutters, fixating on the last night part. He imagines Stan playing with Wendy's hair in bed while she pontificates about how to help the poor fat kids, and suddenly the way she corrected his footwork during the yoga session seems much more annoying and condescending.

"Yeah, she's into it," Stan says. He shrugs and steps in front of Kyle as they come to the main building, pulling the door open for him. "I guess I am, too. But the lantern is sort of a weird touch, yeah."

The rest of the kids are done with their breakfast, empty trays littering the tables as they talk amongst themselves. Kyle feels self conscious when he collects his tray, and from the corner of his eye he sees Stan taking his place with Token and Wendy at the counselors' table. He must have already eaten.

"Mr. Diabetes," Kenny says, smiling stupidly when Kyle walks up to the counter.

"Please don't call me that."

"Oh, sorry, dude. Craig just filled me in on what's ailing you, that's all. He's gonna adjust your diet if necessary, he says. For now, have some whole wheat pancakes, fruit compote, and a side of turkey bacon!" He gives Kyle three pieces of turkey bacon, which seems excessive, but Kyle doesn't question the portion, his stomach growling as he heads toward the table where the rest of his age group is sitting, some of them still pink-cheeked from the recent exertion.

"Isn't this fucked up?" Eric asks when Kyle sits beside him, not by choice but because it's the only empty seat. 

"What?" Kyle mutters, and he hurries to eat some bacon, pinching two pieces together so it will look like one. 

"Pancakes?" Eric says. "They call these pancakes? And no syrup, no butter? We're supposed to use fucking fruit as a topping?"

"I don't understand how you continue to be surprised by the selection of foods," Rebecca says. "Did you think they were lying to our parents when they said they would feed us a healthy diet?"

"No, bitch, but butter is not unhealthy! It's fucking dairy!"

"Butter is fat," Kyle says."It's like, pure fat. Did you seriously not know that?"

"He's not wrong about it also being dairy," Rebecca says, and Kyle has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her.

"I know butter is fattening, no shit," Eric says. "But a little, after that brutal fucking workout? That's too much to ask?"

"I liked the yoga," Bebe says. "I feel energized." 

"Me too!" Butters says, beaming at her. "And the sunrise was real pretty." 

"God." Henrietta raises her lip at them. Sweating has caused her mascara to smear into dark rings under her eyes, making her look pathetic but also slightly frightening. "You two are so fucking – blond."

After breakfast, Wendy passes out the itinerary for the rest of the day. Kyle is embarrassed to see that he's up first for individual therapy with Dr. Mackey, and he's almost queasy with dread, the wheat pancakes sitting uncomfortably on his stomach. They were a bit heavy, glue-like when chewed.

"Shit," Henrietta says. "Psychotherapy. Like that fucking quack who weighs two pounds can tell me anything about real life." 

"That does sound tiring," Rebecca says. "Though I suppose I'm curious about his approach. Not that I truly respect any approach in that field." 

"Kyle?" Wendy says, and she places her hand on his shoulder. "May I walk you to the doctor's office?"

"Good luck!" Butters calls as Kyle is lead away, feeling weaponless. 

Wendy doesn't seem interested in making small talk, so they walk down the hallway to Mackey's office in silence. Kyle is nervous; he's never been analyzed, and he doesn't want to talk about his sexual orientation. He's afraid he'll blurt something about it or get tricked into admitting it. They come to a door at the end of the main hallway that's slightly ajar, and Wendy nudges it open.

"Dr. M?" she says, peeking inside. "I've got your first appointment here."

Kyle doesn't appreciate being referred to as an 'appointment,' and isn't sure how this gels with Wendy's vaguely spiritual appeals to make him appreciate the sunrise. He allows her to usher him into Mackey's office, bracing himself for the x-ray vision of a professional psychologist. 

"We'll see you in the games room when you're done," Wendy says, and she gives Kyle's shoulder a pat before leaving.

"Have a seat, Kyle," Mackey says, gesturing to a couch across from his arm chair. Mackey's office is smaller than Kyle expected, sparsely decorated in pastel tones. There's a large window on the back wall, looking out on the desert, and to Kyle this seems odd, as if the emotional nakedness he might display will be exposed to the elements and potential onlookers. 

"I'd just like to personally welcome you to camp," Mackey says. His impossibly long legs are crossed, the raised foot bouncing. Kyle is slumped on the couch, which smells like it's recently been vacuumed. "How do you feel about the experience so far?" Mackey asks.

"It's good," Kyle says. "I like the staff." He thinks of Stan, glancing away from Mackey's stare and focusing on a watercolor of a howling coyote that's hanging on the wall. "They're nice."

"Yeah, they're a great group of kids. So this is just kind of an informal session, mmkay, for me and you to talk about some things you might like to work on this summer. Why don't you tell me a little bit about your life at home?"

"Umm, well. I'm a pretty good student. I don't have a lot of friends. Most of the time I just hang out with my little brother, but. I'm not depressed or anything. I just want to lose some weight. And I'm gonna try. I will."

"Well, that's great to hear, Kyle. I appreciate your enthusiasm. Why is it, do you think, that you don't have a lot of friends?"

"Because most of the people at my high school are dumb hicks."

"Mmkay, and how would you characterize a dumb hick?"

"Someone who doesn't read. Who -- who doesn't question anything unless it's different from him, and in that case he attacks it relentlessly because he's terrified by anything he doesn't understand. You know, like. Homophobes."

"You've encountered some homophobia in your hometown?" Mackey says, scribbling something on the notepad he's balanced on his knee.

"Not against me!" Kyle regrets speaking so loudly when Mackey looks up at him, and he sinks back into the couch cushions, his face blazing now. "I'm not gay." 

"Mmmkay," Mackey says, slowly, which is irritating. Kyle's eyebrows twitch, but he refuses to glower at this man like a child, which is surely what Eric and Henrietta will do in their sessions. "Would you like to talk about your feelings for the opposite sex?"

"No." Kyle feels as if he's already confessed by protesting too much, but this guy can't make him tell the truth. Not yet, anyway. Probably not ever.

"Alright, okay, that's fine. Let's talk about your parents, then. You're pretty close to your mom?"

"I guess. She's really nosy. And then my dad is just like, so oblivious. It was her idea to send me here. He does whatever she says." 

"That's interesting," Mackey says, and he writes more on his notepad. "So you feel like maybe your mom is more invested in your, um, daily activities? Maybe too invested?"

"Yeah, too invested. She's a homemaker, and I wish she wasn't there all the time. I wish I had more privacy." 

"Can you give me an example of how she invades your privacy?"

"Looking for snack foods in my room. Which, okay, they're there. And I know it's against the rules. I know I need to stop doing that. But it's almost like – when she comes down on me for it – that just makes me more determined to go behind her back and do what I want." 

Kyle talks about his mother for the rest of the hour-long session, which is a relief, because he doesn't have to come back around to the subject of his sexual development, and also because he has a lot to say on the subject and hasn't been able to talk about it before, aside from the occasional mutual grumbling with Ike. He loves his mother, but he feels like she knows everything about him, too much, almost like she's spying on his soul. He rolls his eyes at himself when he hears this out loud, but Mackey nods as if it's an astute observation. When the session is over, Kyle is surprised to realize that the time passed quickly.

As he heads away from Mackey's office he feels lighter, relieved, and also a little guilty, as if his mother will hear a report on what he said. Mackey assured him multiple times that their sessions will remain entirely confidential. Kyle passes Eric and Wendy in the hall, and he has to hold in a laugh when he sees the look on Eric's face. It's petulant but frightened. 

"It's not so bad," Kyle says.

"What?" Eric snaps. 

"Please go to the game room," Wendy says to Kyle, pointing down the hall. "Just take a left at the water fountains. Have you still got your itinerary?"

"It's in my pocket."

"Good – you've got a free hour to play games or read, whatever you want. Nutrition class is at noon." 

"He just said he's still got his itinerary," Eric says, and Wendy gives him a look before ushering him away. Kyle heads toward the game room and wonders what Eric might tell Mackey. Will he trust the doctor enough to discuss his experiences in juvenile hall and their supposed affect on his sexuality? He certainly discussed it easily enough with Kyle, and last night he made 'jerk off rules' for the cabin: in the shower only, unless they happen to be alone in the cabin. Kyle wishes he would have let it go unsaid. Now every time he showers he'll know that the other boys are aware he's jerking his cock, and he'll have to imagine that they're doing the same when it's their turn.

The game room is a sprawling lounge with colorful sofas and several round tables where kids have gathered to play board games and cards. There are no video game machines, to Kyle's dismay. He finds Clyde and Butters playing Monopoly with some younger kids and watches with disinterest, wondering where Rebecca is, though he doesn't particularly want to talk to her, either. He startles when someone lays a hand on his shoulder, and makes an effort not to beam gladly when he sees that it's Stan. 

"We're supposed to do an injection before you start nutrition class," he says. "Eating lunch is part of the class."

"Seriously?" Kyle isn't sure how he feels about that.

"Yeah, you guys are going to cook your own food, apparently. So let's head over to the nurse's station and juice you up first."

Heat spreads through Kyle's chest at the thought of being juiced up by Stan, whose large, masculine hands featured in Kyle's shower jerk off fantasies last night. They walk outside together, into the already blistering heat of the early afternoon, and Kyle feels uncomfortably warm within a few steps away from the main building.

"I forgot to put on sunscreen," he says.

"Oh, shit," Stan says. He halts as if maybe they need to run back inside. "Well, they've got it at the nurse's station, if you can make it that far."

"I can make it," Kyle says, offended. "I'm not, like. Sickly, or whatever."

"I know, dude. Just don't want you to get burned." Stan touches his back, and Kyle forgives him immediately. "How was your thing with Mackey?"

"My thing?" Kyle grins, and Stan smiles sheepishly. There's something cowed and apologetic about him that Kyle wants to climb on top of and caress. "It was fine. He's not as bad as I thought he'd be."

"Yeah, he's a pretty nice guy. Craig's the one you've got to look out for."

"You really hate him, huh?"

"Nah, just." Stan goes quiet and shrugs. "Anyway, um. I'm glad you liked talking to Mackey."

The nurse's station is empty, and Kyle is very glad for this. Again, Stan doesn't bother to put on a light, as there's enough natural illumination from the window. Kyle sits on the examining table while Stan fetches his supplies, including a big bottle of SPF 50. They're both silent while Kyle injects his insulin, and Kyle doesn't mind the pause in conversation. It's nice, a respectful quiet.

"Do you wear it every day at home?" Stan asks when Kyle puts on sunscreen.

"In summer, yeah. Being a redhead sucks."

"Ah, don't say that. Redheads are cool. They're even rarer than blonds, right?"

"I guess so."

"It sucks to be average," Stan says, and Kyle looks up from his sunscreen application. Stan is staring at Kyle's arm. "I feel like I'm so ordinary." 

"I'd love to be ordinary. I'm not normal in any way. I'm fat, I've got this diabetes shit to deal with, the fucking hair, and—" Kyle nearly chokes when he realizes he was about to say he's gay. After being so paranoid about his talk with Mackey, he's totally forgotten himself in this much more dangerous situation. Stan peers at him curiously. "And I'm Jewish," Kyle says, recovering swiftly. "Only Jewish family in our shitty little town."

"Wow, seriously? Are people jerks about it?"

"Usually not intentionally. Sometimes, though, yeah. Eric said something nasty to me yesterday."

"That huge kid? What'd he say? Did you tell Mackey?"

"Oh – no, it was just some oblivious hick thing." It actually wasn't, and Kyle has no idea why he's defending Eric, except that he doesn't want to be a snitch, generally. "I doubt he pays much attention to what comes out of his mouth." 

"If he gives you a hard time, just let me know," Stan says, looking so serious that Kyle almost laughs, though he's actually touched. Stan is incredibly sweet, which means he's not ordinary at all. It's a rare quality, and especially in someone so good looking. "I mean it," Stan says when Kyle sits there smiling at him moonily. "You don't have to put up with that shit."

"Kay. Thanks."

Stan walks him back to the main building and drops him off at the Nutrition Lab that is presided over by Craig. It looks like Kyle's chemistry classroom, everyone paired off at individual cooking stations. By the time Kyle arrives, the only person without a partner is Eric. Clyde and Tammy have paired up, and Butters and Bebe are sharing a station. Henrietta seems irritated to be stuck with Rebecca, but it's still preferable to Eric, who smirks at Kyle as he approaches. 

"How was your therapy?" Kyle asks, not impressed with the smirk. 

"Eh, it was stupid. That guy's a hippie douchebag."

"Do you actually like anybody?" Kyle mutters, not really interested. He's examining the supplies at their station: stainless steel bowls, measuring cups and spoons, a whisk. It's exciting, having new equipment to work with, or what looks new, anyway. Craig's lab and all of the instruments laid out on their cook top are pristine. 

"I don't like people," Eric says when Kyle looks at him. "I respect them, if they can earn my respect, which they usually can't."

"Okay." Kyle looks back to the cookware, eager for class to start. He wants to tell Eric that all his glowering and smirking makes him seem like a child, despite his size.

"Good afternoon," Craig says when he comes into the room, walking to the front of the class with his uncannily perfect posture, a bunch of bananas clutched in his right hand. It's an inauspicious sight: Kyle hates bananas. "Welcome to your first nutrition class," Craig says. He sets the bananas on the cook station that faces the classroom. "As you can see, I favor a hands-on approach. Some of you may come from homes where the family meal choices are part of your weight problem. You need to be able to create your own meals, independently, with a firm knowledge of how what you eat will affect your weight. Half of our class time here will be instructive, and the other half will be the actual practice of meal preparation."

"What are we making today?" Butters asks, bouncing with excitement on his stool. Craig's eyes slide to him in an icy way that makes Butters go still, shoulders hunching.

"Although this is a workshop," Craig says. "I expect to see hands raised for questions."

"Sorry, sir," Butters says.

"Stan says this guy is a jerk," Kyle whispers when Craig has his back turned to them, writing basic nutrition facts on the board. It's nothing Kyle doesn't already know. Eric frowns at him.

"Who the hell is Stan?"

"The counselor." Kyle wishes he hadn't said anything when Eric's attention seems to narrow on him too precisely. "The black haired one." 

"They all have black hair. You mean the white guy."

"Well, yeah, the white guy." 

"Your personal nurse," Eric says. He chortles when Kyle looks away, embarrassed. "That's so pathetic. Does he put a little band aid over your boo boo after you shoot up?"

"I'd happily do it myself, okay, but they won't—"

"Boys!" Craig says, and Kyle feels like he's taken a spear in the chest, his eyes snapping to Craig, who stares at Kyle and Eric in for a few angry, unblinking seconds before turning back to the board, message delivered. Eric is still laughing under his breath, quiet enough for only Kyle to hear.

Despite Craig's demeanor, Eric's partnership and the presence of bananas – which turn out to be optional – Kyle enjoys the class. He realizes partway through that, while he doesn't like Craig, he respects him. Craig seems smart, stern but fair, and sure of himself in a way that Kyle envies. Meanwhile, while he has zero respect for Eric and certainly doesn't like him, he's kind of an interesting character, and surprisingly willing to follow Kyle's lead once they start cooking, passing ingredients and fetching utensils. The first recipes they learn are easy: turkey pinwheel sandwiches and fruit salad with a small portion of dried coconut shavings. Craig measures everything out for them so that they can't use too much of the good stuff, like the herbed low fat cream cheese on the pinwheels. 

"I assume all the clean plates mean that you found the meal satisfying?" Craig says when they've eaten their creations, seated on the stools at their cook stations. No one is bold enough to dare a response, but Craig seems pleased anyway, smiling smugly at the front of the class.

When class is over, there's another free hour while Butters takes his turn with Mackey. Kyle is glad he got his session over with early, and he skips the game room, heading back to his cabin with permission from Wendy. He's annoyed when Eric follows him, though not surprised. 

"I'm still hungry," Eric says as they walk to the cabin.

"I could eat," Kyle says. "But like he said, it takes a few weeks to get your appetite down to normal levels."

"Bitch, whatever. My appetite is already normal. Fucking look at me. Do I look like someone who needs the same amount of little tea sandwiches that Butters does? Or you, for that matter?"

Kyle shrugs. One thing he does enjoy about Eric's company is feeling lithe in comparison. He wouldn't mind being taller, however.

"Is your dad really a pro football player?" Kyle asks when they enter the cabin, which is so efficiently air-conditioned that Kyle shivers. His sweat cools instantly, coating his skin with a chilly film.

"Retired," Eric says. He sits on his bed, his back to Kyle, and rifles through his duffel bag. "What the fuck?" He picks the bag up and empties it onto his bed, breathing audibly. "Where the hell is my candy?" he asks, shouting this at Kyle, who feels suddenly in danger of being thrown across the room. 

"I don't know." Kyle sits on his bed, trying to remain calm while Eric breathes in huffs through his nose. "Maybe Token found it and did you the favor of getting rid of it instead of reporting you to Craig."

"Yeah, right. Or maybe one of you devious little fuckers stole it."

"Well, it wasn't me! I don't want that crap."

"Bullshit." Eric slings the empty duffel off his bed, pawing through the personal effects that he's dumped there. Among them is a stuffed animal, a tattered green frog with a lolling tongue. It looks homemade. When Eric notices that Kyle has spotted it, he grunts and stuffs it under his pillow. "Well, this is just fucking great," he says. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Uh, lose weight? I mean, I know you think you're like, all beefy and strong and shit, but you could be really fucking scary if you actually worked at it."

"Scary?" Eric says, still glaring at him.

"Yeah, like— dude. If I was tall like you I'd be really excited about getting all ripped. Don't you want people to fear your raw physical power?" Kyle is kind of joking, maybe at Eric's expense. Eric calms somewhat and scratches at the back of his neck. 

"I guess that would be cool," he says. "But look at me, okay? I'm fucking big. I need fuel."

"So tell Craig to give you an extra protein shake or something. I bet he would, if you asked nicely."

"You think you're really smart, huh?" Eric picks up one of the two books that fell out of his duffel bag. He whips it at Kyle, who was expecting that and catches it. "Ever read it?" Eric asks. 

" _The Fountainhead_?" Kyle laughs and tosses the book back onto Eric's bed. "Yeah, no thanks." 

"Why not? It's brilliant."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Wasn't she some kind of Nazi?"

"Uh, no? Are you kidding? She was a fucking Jew!"

"Oh. The self-hating kind?"

"No. The smart kind."

"I thought you hated Jews?"

"That's just a figure of speech," Eric says, and Kyle wishes he had something in reach to throw at him. He rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, feeling tired. He came back here to read, but maybe he'll just take a nap, if Eric will shut up for a few minutes. 

"Anyway, she was some kind of racist, I heard," Kyle says when Eric has been silent for a while, slumped onto his bed among his scattered belongings. "What's that other book you have?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me!"

Eric throws the second book at Kyle. This time it takes him by surprise, landing hard on his stomach. Kyle laughs when he picks it up.

" _Old Yeller_?" he says. "Seriously?"

"My mom read it to me when we had to put our cat down," Eric says, muttering. "She packed it, not me. Like the stupid frog." 

"Your mom is pretty," Kyle says. He opens the worn paperback and flips through the pages. "I saw her at the assembly. I guess your dad couldn't make it? Mine had to stay home and watch my brother."

"Why the hell are you asking me about my dad? You and that quack doctor. Fuck off, it's not your problem." 

Kyle puts _Old Yeller_ on the desk beside his bed and rolls onto his side, facing away from Eric. He tries to sleep, but he's distracted by Eric's heavy breathing. He seems agitated again. There's no way his dad is anything but a huge asshole who created the problem that is Eric by being awful. That, or he was never there in the first place.

"I can see your butt crack," Eric says after Kyle has almost drifted to sleep. Kyle jerks awake and pulls his pants up higher, glaring at Eric from over his shoulder.

"Why were you looking at my ass?" 

"Oh, Jesus, I wasn't even. I was just looking in your general direction, okay, and when there's an exposed butt crack in the vicinity you're going to spot it easily. I am, anyway." 

"Just don't look at me! Turn around!" Kyle keeps yanking up his pants, though they're well over the butt crack area at this point.

"Man, we've got three months ahead of us in this hell," Eric says. "Let's not waste time pretending we're not both into dick." 

"What?" Kyle glares at Eric and rolls onto his back, hiding his butt entirely. "What are you talking about? You don't know anything about me."

"Bullshit, you're easy to read. You're going to turn down a free blow job? I'm good at it, I've been told."

"Are you serious right now?" Kyle sits up, wondering why he doesn't feel more threatened. Maybe it's because Eric is flopped onto his bed among his embarrassing personal possessions, one of the stuffed frog's legs poking out from under his pillow. 

"Yeah, I'm serious," Eric says. He shrugs. "What else is there to do for fun around here?"

"I'm taking a nap," Kyle says, though he's wide awake now. "And you'd better stop saying this weird shit to me, or I'm going to tell someone." Stan would run Eric out of camp on a rail, but Kyle hopes it won't come to that. It would be depressing to see someone as clearly in need of help as Eric go home over something that seems more like a pathetic cry for help than anything else. Eric shrugs, picks up _The Fountainhead_ and opens it to a random page, pretending to read. 

"Your loss," he mutters.

"Fine, my loss. Just shut up about it, please." 

When the sun begins to go down, their group of boys and girls reassembles for an evening workout with Token. It's a leisurely bike ride around the property, but in the lingering heat they all work up a sweat, even Token, who occasionally turns back to shout encouragement at them as they ride. He's more hands-off than Wendy, and Kyle enjoys himself, despite being soaked in sweat. It's nice not to have constant instruction on how to perfect his posture, and they all ride in a single file line, which means there's no small talk necessary, or further conversation with Eric. Kyle has never had anyone even subtly express a sexual interest in him before, and he's pretty sure this is not normal behavior between recently acquainted gay boys, though he really wouldn't know. He wants to ask how Eric figured out the truth about him, but doing so would be admitting that he's gay, and Eric is the last person Kyle wants to confess to. 

After their workout, Kyle takes the first shower, zipping into the bathroom before Clyde can stink up the place again. He touches himself under the water, imagining himself sitting on the examining table in the nurse's station, coyly unbuttoning the front of Stan's khakis and rubbing Stan's big, stiffening dick through the fabric of his boxer shorts. He comes with a grunt, confident that he hasn't been overheard, and makes certain that all of the evidence is washed down the drain. He's grateful to his mother for packing flip flops to use in the shower, because there's no way he could get off while standing barefoot in the tub where the other three have unloaded. He wonders what Eric thinks about when he touches himself here, and can't decide if it's flattering or vile to imagine someone like that fantasizing about him. 

He's embarrassed to recall his own fantasies as he makes his way to the nurse's station before dinner. He's never vividly fantasized about a real person before, only compilations of fantasy men or fictional characters. The nurse's station is locked when he gets there, and he sits on the cement stairs watching lizards darting along the cement pathways. The sun is going down and the temperature is leveling off. Kyle is tired, but it's nice, his muscles loosened by exhaustion. He lets his head tip back onto the front door of the nurse's station and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling like he could fall asleep.

"Sorry!" Stan shouts, and Kyle sits up straight. Stan is jogging toward the station, his keys in his hand. "Sorry, dude," he says. "It was my first day with the laundry." 

"Laundry?" Kyle stands, uncomfortable with the idea that Stan might be handling his sweat-soaked clothes. "Our laundry?"

"Yeah, it's part of my job." Stan unlocks the nurse's station, and Kyle catches a whiff of detergent. It's not the expensive kind his mom uses, with rosemary. This is more like bleach. 

"Does anyone help you?" Kyle asks as he follows Stan into the station. 

"Kenny said he would," Stan says. "But he's making dinner. You okay?" He turns from the medicine cabinet to look at Kyle as he takes his seat on the examining table. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." Kyle shifts, wrinkling the sanitary paper. "Why?"

"Nothing, just. Had a good first day?"

"Sure, I guess. We have to do group therapy after dinner, though. That sounds like hell."

"Shit," Stan mutters. He gets Kyle's kit and brings it to him. "That does sound rough. Never been in therapy myself. Group or otherwise."

"This is my first time," Kyle says, defensively. Again, they're both quiet while Kyle does his injection. Kyle makes a soft noise under his breath as he withdraws the needle, unintentionally. There's a thrilling jab low in his gut when he looks up at Stan and meets his eyes. 

"You okay?" Stan asks again, and Kyle laughs. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

"Nothing -- just. Here." Stan takes the supplies from him and takes his time putting them away. Kyle remains on the examining table, not in a hurry to get dinner, though he is hungry.

"It must suck," Kyle says. "Doing the laundry." 

"I don't really mind. I mean, yeah, it's not great, but it's kind of zen."

Kyle wrinkles his nose at that word and Stan laughs. 

"It is, though," he says. "Like, just focusing on this simple task, cleaning something, and the machines make this soothing hum."

"You're pretty weird," Kyle says. He's smiling, feeling as if he has permission to be flirtatious, since it's not like he could be perceived as having an actual chance with this guy. Stan grins and shrugs. 

"It's good to hear someone say that," he says. "I've always felt weird, but nobody seems to notice."

"You totally are," Kyle says, and he hops off the examining table. "But it's good. Not ordinary." 

They walk to dinner together, the sky darkening as the sun disappears entirely behind the hills. Kyle stops walking and gapes at Stan when he hears a coyote howl in the distance.

"There you go," Stan says, nodding. "They're out there every night. But don't worry, you're safe." 

Kyle gets that jabbing feeling in his stomach again, warmth spreading outward from the place of impact. 

"I wasn't scared," he says. It's true, but he's glad to head into the main building with Stan all the same. 

Dinner is an unremarkable baked chicken breast served with a side of broccoli and quinoa. Kyle is so hungry that he devours every grain of quinoa, though he hates the texture. He notices that Bebe again eats only half of her meal, dividing the rest between Henrietta and Rebecca, who reach for it like opportunistic vultures.

"It's no fair that we have to do therapy twice in one day," Clyde says when Wendy beckons them to follow her to the group therapy room. 

"This is different," Wendy says. "It's more laid back. You can talk as much or as little as you want to -- though I'd encourage you to talk a lot! Your peers can help and support you in ways that even Dr. Mackey can't."

"Everything she says sounds like a fucking brochure snippet," Henrietta mutters. Kyle nods and thinks about how different Stan is from Wendy and even Token. Stan is a real person, humble, and the kind of counselor the campers could actually talk to, though Kyle would be jealous if anyone else realized this and confided in him. 

He's still in a Stan-related haze as he takes his seat in the circle of chairs arranged in the game room, near the foosball table. Mackey is seated already, holding his clipboard, and Kyle ends up between Eric and Henrietta. He feels this is strategically wise: with the two biggest, surliest kids flanking him, he should be able to fly under the radar.

"I'd like to welcome you all to our first group session," Mackey says when everyone is seated. "I know the boys already had some individual therapy this morning, but this is more of an informal discussion to help you talk openly about the process, mmkay? So let's begin by going around the circle and hearing how the first day at camp went so far. Butters, why don't you start?"

"Well," Butters says. He knocks his fists together and peers around at everyone in the circle uncertainly. "I liked my first day a whole lot! I kinda miss my mom, though."

Eric snickers. Mackey gives him a humorless stare until he stops.

"The sharing circle is not a place of judgment, mmkay?" Mackey says, and Kyle almost loses it himself when he hears Eric's barely contained laughter. Mackey frowns and looks back to Butters. "Please continue, Butters."

"Oh, I'm done," Butters says, wilting. 

"Alright, that's fine. How about you write your mom a letter, hmm? That would be a nice way to let her know you're thinking of her. Okay, Bebe? Thoughts after the first day?"

"It was good," Bebe says. "I liked the yoga, and the biking. And the girls in my cabin are super sweet." Kyle hears Henrietta make a kind of gargling sound in disbelief.

"Well, that's great to hear, Bebe. Tammy, how about you?"

"I just want to say that Bebe is the cutest," Tammy says, bouncing with enthusiasm. Eric moans under his breath and tips his head back to give the ceiling a suffering stare. "And I totally can't wait until I look like you," Tammy says, speaking to Bebe. "You're my thinspiration, girl!"

"Okay, Tammy, I'm gonna stop you right there," Mackey says. "We try not to use words like 'thinspiration' here at camp. Unfortunately, they can be associated with disorders like anorexia." 

"Oh, sorry." Tammy grabs Bebe's wrist, looking chastened. "I was not trying to say that Bebe is anorexic. She's totally not!" 

"Let's move on," Mackey says, jotting something on clipboard while Bebe turns bright red and gives Tammy a forgiving smile. "Clyde, how about you? Thoughts after the first day?"

"I'm hungry," Clyde says. He's got his arms folded over his sizable stomach, his shoulders slumped. 

"Well, that's normal, Clyde, in the first couple of days especially. We're giving you enough calories to get you through the day with your exercising and whatnot, and I might as well spoil the surprise – we'll be having some pineapple slices after group, as a special kind of treat." 

"Oh, boy!" Eric says, loudly. "How fucking delightful." 

"Eric, I think we've already talked about your language use? Mmkay? Henrietta, do you have any thoughts about your first day?"

"No."

"Nothing at all?" Mackey shifts in his seat, his mouth tightening. "You know, you're free to express your negative feelings here, it doesn't have to be all positive." 

"You want to hear how I feel?" Henrietta shouts, and Kyle presses back against his chair, abruptly less confident about his choice to sit beside her. "I feel like all this bullshit weight loss rhetoric is unfair! You think I want to be fat? Fuck no! But these are just the cards I got dealt, alright, and I'm never gonna be the kind of dumb bitch who wants to run around a track in circles or on some treadmill torture machine, so if I can accept how I look while I'm fucking living in this body that everyone is ridiculing and judging all the time, why can't my mother get the _fuck over it_?"

She comes to a halt with a shriek, falling back into her chair and breathing audibly. Kyle glances at Eric, expecting to find him snickering, but he looks as nervous as Kyle feels after hearing that outburst.

"Mmmkay," Mackey says slowly, and Kyle is afraid that Henrietta will pitch her chair at him, but now she's crossed her arms over her chest and is staring at the floor. "I want to thank you for being so open and honest with your feelings, Henrietta. That is really useful stuff for the group to discuss. You and I can talk more in private, too, of course, if you'd like."

"Whatever," Henrietta says, still looking at the floor. 

"How about we move on to Kyle," Mackey says. "Kyle, do you have anything to add in response to Henrietta's feelings?" Mackey looks at Kyle meaningfully, as if to prompt him to talk about his own mother, and Kyle frowns. It's a totally different thing. 

"I sympathize with the not wanting to run in circles part," Kyle says. "And that's what it feels like when you start out at a disadvantage, out of shape. It feels hopeless, and you feel like a joke for trying." He hadn't planned to be candid in the group, but it's nice not to just blurt out some lie about how much he loved yoga. 

"Yeah!" Eric says before Mackey can make a placating statement. "And it's just so fucking dumb. Why would I spend my time doing something I hate for an hour every day? Just 'cause some people can't deal with the fact that I've outsmarted the system by doing whatever I want all the time?"

"But you haven't," Kyle says, remembering their discussion in the cabin and Eric's nascent willingness to consider this experience an opportunity to become a big, scary behemoth as opposed to a big fat one. "Look, I get what you're saying, but the fact is, we have to play by everybody else's rules. And they're never going to understand the reasons why we're kind of handicapped or whatever, and they're not going to accept that as an excuse. If you want to get ahead in any system, you have to try to fit in with that system, at least a little, or you're always going to be left on the outside." 

"I really resent that," Rebecca says. "Though I accept the reality. We didn't volunteer to start on the outside of this system and work our way in – we didn't even earn it through our mistakes, necessarily! My brother and I are fed the exact same diet. I inherited my mother's lumpiness, and he's rail thin like our father. But I'm the one who's expected to amend myself or give up any hope of achieving respect through other venues. I'm complaining in vain because I know Kyle's right, but I don't think Eric is wrong to be frustrated by this." 

Like his experience with individual therapy, Kyle is surprised to find himself quickly engaged in the discussion and impatient for his next turn to talk. Even Eric continues to pipe up without just laughing at everybody. Butters and Bebe stay pretty quiet, and Henrietta refuses to speak again. By the time their hour of group therapy is over, Kyle feels like he does at school, in gifted class, on the rare occasion when the discussion is lively and he's confident enough to argue his points. He's starting to suspect that he might actually enjoy his time here, his dread of the next three months lessening considerably.

"I'd better check my blood sugar first," Kyle says when Mackey passes out the pineapple slices. 

"Oh, sure, that's right," Mackey says. "Why don't you go find Stan? I think he's still in the laundry room."

Kyle has his kit and could check it himself, but he's glad for the excuse to find Stan among his zen-like laundry machines. Maybe he'll even help Stan fold towels or something. 

He heads down the hallway, the distant smell of dryer sheets leading him toward the laundry room. Though the group session was worthwhile, he's glad to have a moment alone, and happily anticipating being alone with Stan. He can hear the machines as he gets closer: the rhythmic tumble of industrial size dryers. There is something kind of soothing about it, Kyle decides. He pushes open the laundry room door.

For a moment he thinks he's looking at two half-dressed strangers, both with black hair, one bent over a laundry machine while the man behind him fucks him in the ass, the noises they're making concealed by the machines. Only when the guy who's getting fucked looks up and meets Kyle's eyes does he realize that it's Stan. The man behind him -- inside him -- is Craig, whose eyes pierce through Kyle like icicles when he turns to see what Stan is looking at.

"Kyle!" Stan says, breathless. His elbows are on the machine, pants around his ankles, cheeks bright pink. "It's – it's okay—"

"Get out!" Craig roars.

Kyle bolts down the hall, getting away from what he just saw as quickly as he can. He never thought he would voluntarily run anywhere, but right now it's all he wants to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - thanks to all who have left kudos and comments! I'd love to hear what you guys think of this chapter.

That night, Kyle lies awake in bed, staring at the cabin ceiling. It didn't take the others long to drift off, exhausted by their first full day at camp. Clyde is a loud mouth breather, Butters snores in piglet-like grunts, and Eric whimpers intermittently. Kyle is kept awake mostly by his heart, which hasn't stopped pounding since he ran from the laundry room, and his inability to stop mentally replaying and attempting to analyze what he saw there.

The hardest thing to get his head around is the idea that Stan is gay, though at the same time it kind of makes sense. Kyle never would have guessed it, but there was something bashfully secretive about Stan that he couldn't put his finger on from the start, especially when he grumbled about Craig. He's been hiding, all this time, like Kyle has. He just knows that Stan isn't out, maybe because a cute guy Stan's age would have a boyfriend if he was, instead of weird laundry machine sex with his co-worker.

Either way, Kyle must accept what he saw with his own eyes: Stan and Craig are lovers. They have sex. Stan bends over for a guy who must be at least ten years older than him. Kyle cringes under his blankets, hovering in an uncomfortable grey area between arousal and horror. He didn't think real life butt sex would look quite like that. In his fantasies it's more rosy and tasteful, at least visually. Craig and Stan were both sweating while the dryers around them made that clunking noise, factory-like. They were breathing so hard, and Stan's face was bright red even before he saw Kyle in the doorway. Then there was Craig's cock, which looked wet, and Stan's, which Kyle wishes he'd gotten a better glimpse of, though that's terrible. It was definitely hard, sticking out from under the hem of Stan's t-shirt. Kyle isn't sure if he feels more mortified for himself or for Stan, but he's certain that tomorrow morning's insulin injection will be unbearable for both of them, if Stan hasn't run away from camp entirely after being seen like that, with his pants around his ankles and a dick in his ass.

There's a kind of nauseous giddiness flowing through Kyle as he finally drifts to sleep. It's a sense of possibility, he thinks, only half-consciously. It's not as if Stan is going to leave his adult boyfriend and take some kind of sexual interest in Kyle as a fellow gay person, but they share this secret now. They're connected, in a way.

When Kyle wakes up he feels much less confident that what he witnessed will lead to an increasingly special relationship with Stan. Blistering anxiety floods back in as he dresses for the morning work out, his hands shaking. What if Stan isn't able to look him in the eye? What if they both pretend it never happened? And what will Craig do, now that Kyle knows he's fucking Stan?

"Earth to Jew boy," Eric says, and he throws a balled up sock at Kyle. It bounces off of Kyle's shoulder and rolls into the middle of the room. Eric is glowering at him as if insulted. "I asked you a question," he says.

"Huh? What?"

"We're taking bets," Eric says. "What manner of torture do they have in store for us this morning? My guess is ultimate frisbee. Clyde thinks it's more yoga."

"Ah, Eric," Butters says. "That wasn't torture."

"Shut up, Butters, nobody's talking to you!"

"I don't know," Kyle says, unable to anticipate anything except his next meeting with Stan. He looks down at what he's dressed himself in: a Mackey t-shirt and shorts. "I hope it's not swimming," he says.

Wendy raps on their door as Kyle is tying his sneakers. His heart beats harder when she walks into their cabin, again carrying her lantern. Will Stan have confided in her about what happened last night? Her expression is mild, probably not the kind of look she'd have on if she knew that one of the boys in this cabin witnessed her friend's sexual humiliation. Kyle wonders if she even knows that Stan is gay, and is briefly thrilled by the idea that he might know something about Stan that Wendy doesn't.

"I don't want you guys to be intimidated when you hear this," Wendy says, which instantly intimidates Kyle. "But this morning we're going to have a nice, slow jog around the property."

"I have knee problems," Eric says. "I can't run. You guys have fun, though." He flops back onto his bed.

"Eric, you have no such thing," Wendy says. "I've read your medical file. You can't fool me. Let's go, guys! It'll be great. The girls are waiting outside," she adds, as if this is some kind of incentive.

"Sometimes I vomit when I run," Clyde tries, but Wendy breezes out of the cabin as if she didn't hear that.

Outside, the girls are standing at the end of the stone path that leads to the boys' cabin. They're all wearing sweatpants, with the exception of Rebecca, who has stubby legs and fat knees. Kyle looks down at his own legs, which are twiggy and covered in red hair. He wishes he'd worn sweatpants.

"So!" Wendy says, clapping her hands together. "I don't want you guys to feel like you need to keep pace with me or anybody else - it's not a race, and this is just what I like to call a 'test run.' Just to show you guys that it's not as hard as it looks. We're only going to jog for ten minutes, okay? And if you need to stop and walk, that's just fine, but I want to see you all trying your best to keep jogging. Maybe walk for sixty seconds, then jog for sixty seconds. You'll be amazed how rewarding it is to push yourselves a little!"

"Your sense of what's rewarding may not be universal," Rebecca says. She doesn't even sound annoyed, just as if she wants to gently enlighten a dumb jock. Wendy stares at her for a moment.

"Fair enough," she says. "But let's give it a try and find out. It'll be like a science experiment, Rebecca - but it won't work if you don't really try! C'mon, guys. Here we go!"

Kyle is so preoccupied with thoughts of Stan and Craig and their laundry room fucking that he doesn't have space in his mind to fret about running. He just does it, slowly, thinking about how good it felt to bolt at full speed last night, away from the sight of Stan being penetrated. Violated? No, he didn't seem to be resisting. But there was something very resigned about the way he had his elbows on the laundry machine and his ass thrust back, on offer. Kyle starts breathing hard, only twenty paces or so into his jog.

"This is bullshit," Eric says, and Kyle looks over at him. Eric's big tits are bouncing under his t-shirt, and Kyle thinks that must be very uncomfortable. Kyle's chest bounces, too, but it almost feels good, at least on his nipples when they rub against the inside of his t-shirt. It's chilly outside, the sun not quite up yet. Wendy is a good ways ahead of them already, with Bebe and Butters follow her most closely. Kyle glances behind him and sees that Henrietta is bringing up the rear. She's walking, which makes him sad in a way that he couldn't have expected. "Seriously," Eric says, panting already. "Who does this? What kind of primitive, ape-like person does this voluntarily?"

"Hot people," Kyle says. "Don't you want to be hot?"

This seems to take Eric off guard, and Kyle smirks at him. He runs a little faster, wondering if Eric will try to keep up. He does, huffing.

"I could be," Eric says. "My mom was-"

"A beauty queen, I know. You told me. Plus, I saw her. What does your dad look like?"

"Why are you so obsessed with my dad, Jesus Christ?" Eric says this so loudly that Clyde turns back to see what the commotion is. Kyle hopes he won't come over to try to talk to them, then wonders why, because it's not like he wants to talk to Eric, especially.

"Oh, yeah, I'm so obsessed with your dad," Kyle says, sarcastically, though he is beginning to get kind of curious about Eric's defensive stance on the subject. "It just follows, doesn't it, asking what your dad looks like if we're talking about your genes? Your potential for hotness?"

"You so want to blow me," Eric says, but when he smiles at Kyle he doesn't really look convinced. Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Maybe if you were a little more forthcoming about yourself we could at least have a negotiation," Kyle says, quietly.

He's as shocked as Eric once the words are out. Where the hell did that come from? He thinks of what he saw last night and feels emboldened, as if some gay sex expertise or confidence transferred to him via osmosis.

"You serious?" Eric mutters, staring at him.

"I don't know," Kyle says, honestly.

For a few paces they run in silence. Kyle is beginning to get tired, and his windpipe feels as if it's narrowing. They can't have been running for more than a few minutes. For a second there he'd thought it would be as easy as Wendy promised, fooled by her optimism.

"He doesn't live with us," Eric says, mumbling.

"What?" Kyle says, not sure he heard that correctly. He's beginning to pant pretty loudly himself. The breathing part is even harder than keeping his legs moving.

"My dad," Eric says, almost growling, possibly because he's so short of breath. "He lives in St. Louis. With his wife and his other kid."

"Oh. Shit, I'm sorry. He left you guys?"

Eric just grunts, and Kyle lets the subject drop. It explains some things, he thinks. He slows his pace when Eric does, partly because he's getting tired and partly to show support, or appreciation for that sudden moment of what seems like honesty. It occurs to him with an unexpected thrill that he could be a kind of camp counselor himself, in a sense. He could help show this sad fat kid how to be a better person, and he would have that in common with Stan, too: helping gently, without Wendy's style of strident demands for enlightenment.

"Fuck this," Eric breathes out after another minute or so of running. Kyle is suffering, too, and glad for the excuse to slow to a walk alongside him. He didn't want to be the one who quit running first.

"I'm more of a sprinter," Kyle says, panting. "Running slow over a long distance - ah. It's not - not in my nature to, um. Do things inefficiently."

"Humans weren't designed for this shit," Eric says. "This is cheetah level bullshit. Look at them, trying to act like they're all cool."

He's referring to the only two who are still running: Bebe and Butters, who are nearly keeping pace with Wendy. Clyde is ahead of them and sort of half jogging, half stumbling. Everyone else is behind Kyle and Eric, walking.

"Listen," Eric says, taking Kyle's elbow, and Kyle rears away a bit, afraid he's going to try to start the blow job negotiations that Kyle foolishly hinted at. He's regretting that already, though he's still a little impressed with his own boldness. "I think those two are plants," Eric says.

"Plants - what?"

"The blonds. You know, like the administration planted them in our cabins to be all 'ooh, exercise is fun! Hooray for health food!' and also to spy on us, probably. I'd be careful what you reveal to Butters, is all I'm saying."

"I wasn't exactly planning on revealing things to that kid," Kyle says. "And you sound paranoid, but. That's actually not the craziest concept, really."

Eric grins, and Kyle feels a little weird about smiling back. He tells himself this friendliness is part of his new mission: Eric needs some authentic insider encouragement. Kyle can't wait to tell Stan about his efforts, if Stan is still willing to talk to him, post-laundry room.

Once they've made a full circle around the perimeter of the cabin area, they're allowed to return to their cabins for showers before breakfast. Kyle is glad to be allowed to go first, though the reasoning for it has his stomach churning. He'll head to the nurse's station to get his injection before joining the others for breakfast. He's too tense to even get an erection as he cleans himself, and he lingers under the water for longer than necessary, until the bathroom door bangs open. Kyle puts his hands over his dick and balls instinctively, though there's a heavy blue shower curtain shielding him from whoever's out there.

"Are you douching in there or what?" Eric barks. "We need to shower, too, and I'm fucking hungry!"

"I'm done, Jesus, get out!" Kyle turns off the water, his already agitated heart slamming now. He shouldn't have egged Eric on in exchange for information about his father. Eric has been pushing at Kyle's boundaries since he arrived at camp, and being intruded upon in the shower is not something he intended to invite. He peeks around the curtain to make sure that Eric shut the door, then steps out to hurriedly dry off, trying to convince himself that Stan won't be mad when he reaches the nurse's station. It might be worse if he's not mad but so mortified that his hands shake. Kyle doesn't want Stan to be embarrassed; he wants to communicate his acceptance, somehow, right away, and he's afraid there's really only one way he can do that. He takes a deep breath and tries to make his hair look decent.

On the walk to the nurse's station, Kyle's legs begin to feel leaden. The run might have intensified this, but it's his dread of facing Stan that's weighing him down. Half of him is desperate to see Stan and reassure him that he has an ally in Kyle, and the other half is sweating profusely at the thought of looking into the eyes of someone he's seen in that position. Stan was so vulnerable, and to Craig, of all people. Kyle is in a state by the time he's reaching for the handle on the nurse's station door, his vision tunneled and his fresh t-shirt already stuck to his back.

As he opens the door, he realizes that he's most afraid that the nurse's station will be empty, though he's not exactly relieved when he sees Stan inside, alone, seated on the examining table. He looks wan and tired, and Kyle lingers in the doorway when Stan meets his eyes.

"Oh, dude," Stan says. His voice is scratchy and low, shaking. He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly. "I am so, so. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" He opens his eyes and hops off the examining table, as if he's ready to spring into action on Kyle's behalf if needed.

"I'm fine." Kyle shuts the door and checks the alcove where the nurse sat at her desk yesterday. It's empty, dark. Kyle's heart is thudding, and for a moment he actually feels faint, but it's mostly the sudden change in light and temperature. The overhead lights are off, as usual, and Kyle is glad for the shadows, his hands trembling as he struggles not to picture Stan's face when Craig was in him. "Um," he says. Stan has his hands on his back pockets, and he looks like he wants to die, or vomit, or both. "Are you okay?" Kyle asks.

Stan makes an indecipherable sound and turns away, putting his hands over his face. Kyle wants to go to him and hug him, but he's afraid to move.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Stan says. He braces his hands on the examining table, his back to Kyle. "I'm not even. I mean. Nobody knows. Only him, and, uh. You, now."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kyle asks, gently. On the way over he'd been planning to blurt something about his own gayness so that Stan would know he can be trusted, but now that seems outlandish.

"Talk - oh." Stan turns back to Kyle, looking broken. "You're so - that's so - no, this isn't your problem. God, I'm sorry you saw that. Shit, you must - if you want to tell Mackey, that's cool. I shouldn't have, um. I let you down, I know."

He sounds like he'll cry, and Kyle can't wait any longer. He crosses the space between them and goes in for a hug, but Stan steps back, evading him.

"It's okay," Kyle says, his own eyes stinging from a sense of rejection. "I mean. I understand."

"Kyle." Stan takes another step backward. "You don't have to, uh. Listen, I shouldn't touch you."

"Why not?" Kyle is quickly overheating, despite the air conditioning in the room; he wants to peel his skin off to get some relief.

"Because I'm fucked up! You saw."

"It's not fucked up to be gay," Kyle says, and he almost snorts when he hears himself and his counselor-like tone. "Not to me, anyway."

"That's not what I mean. I'm here, supposed to be setting an example, and, ah. I've known that guy two weeks. He's such an asshole, too, he - I don't know what I'm doing. Shit, here." Stan goes to the medicine cabinet, his hands shaking visibly when he opens it. "You don't need to hear all this. Just know that you can tell Mackey if I disturbed you. I should be arrested, probably."

"I'm the one who burst in on you," Kyle says. "You're both adults. Is he - he's not, like. Making you, is he?"

Kyle's face is on fire, and so is Stan's when he turns from the cabinet. Despite the horrendous awkwardness, Kyle feels okay. This is a safe place, and Stan doesn't hate him.

"God, no," Stan says. "He's, just - I've just never had a guy come on to me before. And, I. I've known for a while that I wanted one to, I just didn't know how to, uh. Make it all happen. He swept in on me like he had a script. So."

"Do you even like him a little?" Kyle says, hoping the answer is no, though Stan must see something in Craig if he's willing to bare his ass for him.

"I don't know," Stan says. He sighs and brings the lancet kit to Kyle, who hops up on the examining table. "The truth is, I don't really know how to do any of this. It's scary. But then I like it, too. A little, yeah."

"Maybe a little's not enough," Kyle says, and he hunches his shoulders apologetically when he hears himself trying to give this grown man advice on his gay sex life. "Sorry, I. It's not like I know anything."

"It's okay." Stan scratches at his elbow. "This is fucked up, but I've been wanting to talk about it with someone."

"Why not Wendy?"

"Are you kidding me? She got me this job, and this is her, you know. Arena. She takes it real seriously. So if she finds out that I'm fucking one of our bosses she'll scalp me."

"Craig - he's your boss?" Kyle winces. He supposes he knew this, but he wasn't thinking of it that way, before. Stan shrugs.

"More or less," he says. "He tells us what to do. I kind of-" Stan trails off and looks at the window. "Like that," he says, muttering. "But then I hate it, too. It's complicated. Fuck, sorry. I can't believe I'm telling you this. I can't believe you saw that, us, last night, Jesus - I feel like a sex offender."

"Dude," Kyle says, and he's glad when Stan meets his eyes again. "You're not doing anything wrong. I actually, uh. I've been wanting to talk about this with somebody, too."

"This?" Stan says. Kyle waits, kicking his legs a little. He looks down at his blood sugar meter when it beeps.

"I need insulin," Kyle says, and Stan goes to the cabinet. "And, you know," Kyle says when Stan's back is turned. "I'm gay, too."

"Oh." Stan lingers at the cabinet, and Kyle waits to experience the internal apocalypse he's always anticipated at the thought of confessing. It doesn't come, maybe because Stan is somehow the more vulnerable one here. He turns from the cabinet and gives Kyle a sheepish smile. "I wish I had been able to say that when I was your age," Stan says. "I still can't say it."

"That's the first time I have," Kyle says, and then there's a sudden threat of tears, but it passes. "I didn't even tell Mackey." He puts his hand out and Stan brings the insulin to him. They're both quiet when Kyle injects himself. As usual, it's nice.

"It's not like I don't want to be gay," Stan says, mumbling. "It's just. It's more like I don't know how to be, when everyone assumes I'm not. And Craig, um. It's like he knows how."

"Well, he's older," Kyle says, jealously. "And I don't know how, either, but I guess by the time I'm your age I'll have to start figuring it out."

"That's the thing." Stan takes the insulin from him, and when their fingers brush Kyle wants badly to hug him, though he's afraid Stan would jump backward again. "I thought, when I went off to college, this new gay life would just happen. I didn't want to be out in high school, 'cause there was nobody there I wanted to hook up with anyway, but in college I figured it would all start, like, actually happening. It didn't, though. I even slept with two girls."

"Ew," Kyle says, as gently as possible. Stan snorts and smiles at him.

"Girls aren't that bad," he says. "Maybe I'm bi. I used to beat off to regular porn. Shit, see - Craig is always calling me on stuff like that. I'm stuck thinking other people are regular and I'm a freak, sort of."

"I don't think it's offensive to call it 'regular' porn," Kyle says, because fuck Craig. "I mean, that's just the kind of porn that's more common. Most people are straight." He takes a moment to try to gauge if he sounds mature and reasoned or like a very small child who only thinks he sounds grown up. "Can I tell you something in confidence?" he asks, and Stan smiles again.

"Yeah," he says. "I feel like you're the first person I've really talked to all summer."

"Ha, well. You must talk to Craig."

"Uhh, yeah. It's usually brief. Anyway. What's up?"

"There's another gay boy here at camp," Kyle says, quietly. He wonders if he'll be late for breakfast, then doesn't care. "He's confided in me, I guess because he could tell I was gay, too." Kyle pauses there and searches Stan's eyes. He appears to be listening intently, and Kyle feels for a moment like they're in a tree fort together, whispering secrets. "Could you tell about me?" he asks.

"That you were - nah, no. But then." Stan narrows his eyes and nods a few times, slowly. "When you said it, just now? Then it did felt like I knew, kinda. Even though I wasn't thinking it, really, before."

"That's how it felt for me!" Kyle says, brightening. "When, um. Last night."

Stan winces at the reminder and goes to put Kyle's medicine away. "You could tell about me?" he says when he's got his back to Kyle.

"No, no," Kyle says. "But there was just - something. It was part of why I liked you. Like you, I mean."

"You still like me, huh?" Stan gives him a kind of joking smile, but Kyle can see that he's sincerely relieved. Kyle beams and nods, probably too enthusiastically.

"And what I was saying, about this other gay boy at camp - he's a mess. You can probably, uh, guess who I'm talking about, but I'd rather not say his name. Because I want to help him. I think he's really sad, and I - this probably sounds dumb."

"Doesn't sound dumb," Stan says. "But, you know. Don't get too distracted by him. You're here for you, right?"

"Right, but I like the idea of - helping someone else, too." Kyle's voice trails off toward the end of this statement. Maybe he's being stupid. He's certainly not going to broach the subject of Eric's lame attempts at seduction. Not yet, anyway. It would be good to have a trusted ally if that gets out of hand.

"We should probably get you to breakfast," Stan says.

"Right," Kyle says, disappointed, though he is very hungry. He reminds himself that he'll see Stan again this afternoon, and this evening. When he considers the fact that they've got the whole summer to have talks like this together he practically floats off the examining table.

"Hey," Stan says, and he reaches toward Kyle, then stops himself just short of touching his arm. "Um. Am I really the first person you've ever told?"

"You really are," Kyle says, though maybe Eric counts.

"That's awesome, man. Congratulations. And you were so cool about it."

"What was I supposed to do, cry or something?" Kyle asks, as if he hasn't always pictured himself in floods of tears while coming out, his head in his mother's lap. He shrugs like it's no big deal. "I'm okay with it," he says. It's never really been true before this moment, but now he's gay in the company of Stan's fellow gayness, which feels like a privilege.

"Well," Stan says. "If you ever do need to cry or something, you can talk to me."

"Thanks," Kyle says, and then he feels it again, the pressure of potential tears, heavy at the corners of his eyes. He heads for the door and manages to hold it in. He's not sad, just a little overwhelmed, but mostly in a good way. So much has happened already.

Breakfast is an egg white omelette with a side of fruit salad, and Kyle feels sophisticated, eating this, though he'd prefer some pancakes and real bacon. He's feeling so newly adult that it seems as if he should have coffee and the newspaper along with his breakfast. Eric is studying him suspiciously as he takes dainty bites of his omelette.

"What the hell are you so chipper about?" Eric asks when they're walking to the game room for their free hour. They have the option of returning to the cabin, but Kyle doesn't want Eric to follow him there and start questioning him about blow jobs again. He's in too good a mood for that, and apparently it's obvious.

"I just feel lighter," Kyle says.

"After one run? That you mostly walked?"

Kyle shrugs. He wasn't talking about his physical weight. Part of him wants to gush about coming out and spread the word, but it's still scary to think of anyone else knowing, so he leaves Eric to wonder why he can't stop smiling. It's not just the coming out; it's that he came out to Stan, which is something he never could have anticipated. It's like they're really friends now, or they're going to be, anyway. Kyle has already thought of at least twenty questions he wants to ask Stan, some of them probably too intimate to actually voice, like what it feels like to have a thrusting penis in your ass. He starts laughing under his breath at the thought of calmly asking this in the nurse's station, and Eric glowers at him.

"I think that hippie counselor fucked up your medication," he says. "You're, like, high."

"I did the injection myself," Kyle says. "But I so appreciate your concern."

After the free gaming hour there's badminton in the indoor gym, and Kyle is still too ebullient to care that he has such horrible hand-eye coordination. His mood dampens when he realizes that nutrition class will follow. He'll have to face Craig, and wonder what Craig is thinking every time he slices his gaze in Kyle's direction. Craig probably wants to wring Kyle's neck for intruding on his enjoyment of a young, impressionable gay boy. Kyle sort of wants to kill Craig, too, but he's not feeling particularly confrontational as they head into the kitchen lab. He takes a seat beside Eric at their work station, though he supposes he could have changed partners. There's something about Eric's hulking largeness that's making Kyle feel more secure as he awaits Craig's arrival.

"Should I ask this bitch about protein shakes?" Eric asks.

"What bitch?" Kyle says.

"The teacher! You said, remember. He might let me have extra calories. Probably not, though. Why did they have to put some stick-looking fucker in charge of our food? Figures."

"It's worth asking," Kyle says, though he doubts Craig will allow anyone to deviate from his diet plan, considering his speech about the dangers of Altoids.

When Craig enters the classroom, Kyle goes stiff and keeps his eyes on the board. He's having flashbacks to last night, despite his attempts to suppress them. Craig's cock had been long and thin, like him. Elegant, even, like some of the expensive silicone dildos Kyle has researched online. He wills these thoughts away, trying to focus on the ingredients for lunch that have been laid out today: dry whole wheat pasta, a small red onion, a red bell pepper, and a head of broccoli, along with some oils and spices. Kyle isn't optimistic about this being delicious, but he doesn't have much of an appetite, anyway, with Craig standing at the front of the room. He keeps his eyes down on his desk.

"Before we begin our hands on lesson," Craig says. "I want to talk to you all about the deadly pitfalls of sugar consumption. It can lead to Type 2 diabetes, which is becoming frighteningly common in overweight children."

Kyle begins to sweat. That's not his type of diabetes, of course, but he feels singled out nonetheless, and he doubts that this is an accident. Craig is letting him know, without saying so exactly, that his trespass has not been forgotten.

"In fact," Craig says, "Kyle, why don't you come up here and share some insights on managing your disease with the class? I know you're Type 1 and it's not the same treatment, but I think it would be worthwhile to have you explain how difficult it is to manage your diet when you have a tendency to be overweight and issues with insulin. You might have some valuable insights - many of your classmates here are in danger of developing Type 2 diabetes."

Kyle is frozen on the stool behind his workstation, staring at Craig, waiting for him to relent. Craig just stares back, seemingly impassive. Kyle can feel something boiling in the air between them: a threat. He slides off his stool, feeling naked, as if Craig has exposed him in revenge.

He's pissed off by the time he makes his way to the front of the classroom. He's not the one who's done something wrong. Craig is the person who has something to lose here, and he's got some goddamn nerve, punishing Kyle for inadvertently walking in on him. Kyle turns to face the class and focuses on Butters, who appears to be taking notes.

"I have to take insulin to control my blood sugar," Kyle says. He hopes Craig can hear how pissed off he is, though he's also afraid to look Craig in the eye. "As far as I know, Type 2 people don't have to do that. They just have to avoid certain foods and change their diet. But I'm not really an expert on that."

He hopes that comes out as a sharp volley in Craig's direction, but when he turns to look at Craig he seems unfazed. Then he smiles, a little shit eating grin that makes his gray eyes appear even more impenetrable.

"Of course you're not an expert. Go sit down, Kyle."

This order is given as if it was Kyle's idea to lecture the class on diabetes. Kyle is fuming with so much buried rage by the time he returns to his workstation that he can feel Eric noticing it, but he ignores Eric's questioning looks.

"Diabetes, Type 2, is not an inability to produce insulin, but a resistance to the effects of the insulin that your body produces," Craig says. He turns to write on the dry erase board. Kyle stills perfectly still, back straight, and concentrates on hating everything about Craig, including his inhumanely precise handwriting. "It is brought on by a poor diet, lack of exercise, and the resulting obesity. Unlike Kyle, who was unlucky enough to be born with an insulin disorder, Type 2 diabetes is brought on by an unhealthy lifestyle and is therefore often preventable for those who are willing to change."

Kyle can't concentrate on the rest of the lesson, and the pasta salad that he makes with Eric turns out too vinegary. Eric eats most of it, jabbing Kyle in the shoulder intermittently.

"What's wrong with you all of a sudden?" Eric asks, speaking with his mouth full. "You pouting because the teacher made you talk about your disability?"

"It's not a disability. And no. You have broccoli stuck between your teeth."

"Shit, where?"

"Right there." Kyle points to his own teeth. Eric fails to extract the broccoli using his tongue, and Kyle turns away, disgusted, when he starts picking at his teeth with his fingernail.

"How long have you been shooting up insulin?" Eric asks.

"Since I was seven."

"Whoa, that's hardcore."

"Well." Kyle is almost flattered. "My mom did it for me, the first few years. So that was. Not great."

"How come?"

"Because - ah! She had to be hovering around me all the time, checking me, rechecking me, and I barely had any personal space at all until I was ten. I barely do now, Jesus."

"Yeah, my mom's pretty fucking annoying." Eric is dragging his fork through the last of the olive oil at the bottom of the pasta bowl, licking it off before collecting more. "She's like, 'Eric, come watch The Bachelor with me.' All the other chicks her age hate her because she's still hot and they're all cottage cheesy in their sweatpants and mom jeans."

"Cottage cheesy?" Kyle snorts. "I bet you have cellulite, too, so maybe don't judge." Kyle has some. His mother recently pointed it out, in an attempt to caution him off his path to a life of blubbery shame, though she's got plenty herself.

"I'll judge all I want," Eric says. "I don't have that shit. Only chicks get that."

"No, actually, wrong again."

"What, do you have some?" Eric grins, and Kyle turns away from him, his face getting hot. He shouldn't have said anything. He really feels like punching someone, and Eric is an excellent candidate, but Kyle is supposed to be rising above Eric's idiocy and helping him achieve enlightenment, or some crap. He's not sure why he thought that was a good idea, except that he wanted to bond with Stan over it. He supposes they have more profound things in common. "Nah, don't feel bad," Eric says, poking Kyle's muffin top. "You've got a cute ass," he says, more quietly, and he laughs when Kyle snarls at him.

"Don't touch me," Kyle says.

"You're feisty today. I like it."

"I don't give a shit what you like!"

"Boys," Craig says, suddenly appearing over Kyle's shoulder. He peers down at Kyle, who struggles not to flinch. Craig smells like something that reminds Kyle of his mother's expensive salon in Denver, and also a bit like laundry detergent. "How did your pasta salad turn out?" Craig manages to make even this question seem menacing.

"It was okay," Eric says. "Do we get fruit or something for dessert?"

"Lunch does not necessitate dessert, Mr. Cartman. A snack will be served near the pool in two hours."

"Listen, uh," Eric says when Craig begins to drift toward the next workstation. Craig turns back, and Eric seems to shrink a bit. "Um, I was thinking, since I'm big and I need more calories than some of these shrimps, maybe I could have, like, a protein shake?"

Craig smiles faintly in a way that makes Kyle want to throw his fork at Craig's smug face, and which also makes him feel surprisingly defensive of Eric, a fellow fat kid who has found himself in this man's nutritional prison.

"Eric, if I offered you extras, everyone would ask for them. Wouldn't you like extra food, Kyle?"

"No," Kyle says, humiliated by the implication that of course he would, and by the fact that it's not entirely untrue. His face is getting red again; goddammit. "But Eric has a point. Bigger people need more calories, even if they're losing weight."

"Are you really lecturing me on caloric intake?" Craig is still smiling, though he no longer seems amused. "I have a PhD in Nutrition from Johns Hopkins. Where did you earn your advanced degree on the subject, Mr. Broflovski?"

Something about the fact that he knows Kyle's last name is both surprising and upsetting. Kyle shrugs as dismissively as he can.

"I'm not wrong," he says. His face is blazing now, but this guy doesn't scare him. Or, he does, but Kyle doesn't want him knowing that. Kyle could blackmail the shit out of him, after all.

"How about this," Craig says. "We'll hold our next lesson on why Kyle is wrong, actually." He's speaking to the whole class now; everyone seems to be listening. "I understand what you're trying to articulate, Kyle, but in Eric's case, you are quite wrong. We'll talk about it soon. Looks like we're nearly out of time - everyone, please begin washing up your stations."

Kyle is in a blind rage by the time they leave the classroom. He'd planned to go the game room after class, to avoid inviting Eric to follow him back to the cabin, but he needs to hit something and he might get in bad trouble if he takes this energy to the game room. He hurries back to the cabin, feeling his skin start to burn under the glare of the afternoon sunlight. He keeps forgetting sunscreen.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Eric asks, barely keeping up with him. "Ready to talk blow jobs?"

"You'd better not piss me off right now," Kyle says. "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

"Ha! Right, I'm sure you could throw me clear across the room."

"I might. It's called an adrenaline rush. Don't fuck with me."

"Ooh, I'm so scared. You're cute when you're mad. Like a kitten trying to roar."

Kyle can't even make it into the cabin: it's too late, he's going to explode. He's had fits of rage before, but something about being physically overheated by the sun is making the blistering heat inside his chest boil more rapidly than ever. In lieu of tearing Eric to shreds, he grabs a shrub near the front door of their cabin and growls as he yanks it clear out of the mulch and sandy dirt it was planted in. Once its roots are exposed he starts tearing it apart, breaking as many brittle branches as he can before ripping off its leaves in violent handfuls. He's making noise but he has no idea what he sounds like: cursing, grunting, maybe hissing. Only when the shrub is almost completely annihilated does he start to regain full consciousness. His hands hurt; there's blood. Drawing a few heaving breaths as his vision becomes less tunneled, he looks over at Eric, who is keeping his distance. He's gone white, his eyes wide and lips parted in some kind of protest that seems to have died on his tongue.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Eric says when Kyle drops what's left of the shrub. He looks down at his hands and groans when he sees the damage he's done to them. His palms and fingers are covered in cuts and scratches, blood mixing with dirt and sand.

"Fuck," Kyle says. As always, he feels weak as his rage drains away, his legs beginning to shake and his breath shortening. He glances at Eric again, embarrassed. "I, um. Don't tell anyone I did that, okay?"

"What the fucking hell is wrong with you?" Eric asks. "Are you some kind of half-demon? Is this a Jew thing?"

"It's not a Jew thing, you piece of shit! Open the fucking door for me, okay? I need to get out of the sun."

Eric obeys, and Kyle hurries inside, his hands stinging badly. He knows he has to get the dirt out of his fresh cuts, and he's glad when Eric follows him into the bathroom and turns the sink on for him. Kyle thrusts his hands under the water and hisses at the pain.

"Seriously, Kyle," Eric says. Kyle glances up at him in the mirror; he looks pretty freaked out. "That was some fucked up shit right there."

"I have have anger issues," Kyle says, grumbling this. He doesn't want to talk about it. "Make it hotter."

"The water? Won't that hurt worse?"

"Just do it, okay! I need to get these things clean."

"These things?" Eric scoffs and adjusts the water temperature for him. "They're your hands, man."

"I meant the cuts. Shit, ow!" Kyle hisses again and pinches his eyes shut, feeling faint from the pain and the sight of his blood dripping into the sink and mixing with the water. He really hopes there aren't any splinters lodged into his cuts. The soap is going to fucking kill, but he holds his shaking hands under the dispenser. "Do it," he says when Eric just stands there looking lost.

Eric sighs as if a lot is being asked of him and squirts a couple of fat dollops of soap onto Kyle's hands. It hurts immediately, the anti-bacterial burn seeping into his wounds, and Kyle growls in pain when he puts his hands under the hot water again. He closes his eyes and sort of sways, his forehead landing against Eric's meaty shoulder.

"Goddammit, goddammit," Kyle says, washing his hands with his eyes still closed and his face pressed to Eric, which is helping for some reason, though not much. "Why did the fuck did I do that?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Eric says. He's staring down at Kyle with something like concern when Kyle lifts his face to grimace at him. "Are you really that pissed off about that stupid nutrition teacher?"

"Yes. He's a fucking prick. And he knows I'm right about the protein shake. I bet he's not going to let you have one just because you're my partner in class. Just to spite me."

"Huh? Why?"

"I can't tell you," Kyle mumbles. He shouldn't have even said that much. "Turn the water off, please. Is there a first aid kit under the sink?"

There isn't, but they find one in the toiletries cabinet on the opposite wall. Kyle takes a towel out into the main room and sits on his bed, drying his hands and taking deep breaths. His parents have been threatening to send him to therapy for his anger issues since he was eight. It's possibly part of why they sent him here. Eric sits across from him on his own bed and watches him struggle to get the first aid kit for a moment before getting up and opening it himself.

"Let me fucking do it, you invalid," Eric says, and he sits on the bed beside Kyle. "Goddamn. You weren't kidding. You went totally Super Saiyan."

"I - what?"

"You never watched Dragon Ball Z?" Eric gives him a betrayed look and shakes his head. "It's like a mega power up. Only that was some dark shit. Here, put out your hands. Damn," he says when Kyle extends them toward him, palms up. "Look at those mangled fuckers."

"Yeah, yeah. Put the ointment on. Is it the pain relief kind, or just regular?"

"Regular, I think." Eric squirts Neosporin onto Kyle's right hand, then his left. "Maybe they'll give you some painkillers. Ask that douche who's always taking you to the nurse's office."

"He's not a douche." Kyle moans when he thinks of what Stan will say at the sight of his fucked up hands. He would really prefer not to let Stan know that he turns into a brainless human tantrum when he gets mad enough. "Ow," says when Eric rubs the Neosporin in for him, spreading it around on his left palm. "Careful."

"Don't be such a pussy," Eric says, but he's more gentle after that. He's breathing kind of hard as he rubs the medicine in, and Kyle really hopes this isn't giving him a boner. "Now what?" Eric says when Kyle's hands are covered in shiny goo. "It's not like I can put fifty different band-aids on this shit. It's all sticky."

"Use the gauze," Kyle says, miserably. "We'll tell people - fuck. That I forgot to put sunscreen on my hands and got burned."

"Seems unlikely that you'd forget your hands, seeing as they're what you use to put the shit on, but okay. How come you don't want anyone knowing that you killed a bush?"

"It's not the bush, Eric." Something about saying his name makes Kyle feel like he should make eye contact, and when he does it's kind of weird, possibly because Eric is holding his hand, preparing to wrap a bandage around it. "I just don't want people knowing, okay? Can you keep a secret?"

"Depends," Eric says, and he grins down at Kyle's hand as he winds the gauze around it. "What will you do for me in exchange?"

"Look, I don't want to keep this a secret badly enough to blow you in exchange, so don't even try it. I meant as a friend thing, fuck. Can we be friends?"

"That's the gayest thing I've heard you say. And just this morning-"

"Yeah, yeah. I know what I said this morning. Whatever. You're not exactly a master of seduction, you giant ass. How'd you know I was gay, anyway?" He mumbles that last part, and can feel Eric staring at him afterward, but he keeps his eyes down on his half-bandaged hand. When he finally looks up, uncomfortable with the silence, Eric seems as if he's about to tell him something very profound.

"Your butt," Eric says.

"Excuse me?"

"Your rear end, yo. You've got a gay butt." Eric shrugs and resumes his work on Kyle's bandages. "I took one look at that bubble ass and made a mental note to tap it, that's all."

"That's absurd. God, you are so weird."

"Yeah, okay. Maybe don't insult me while I'm nursing you back to health."

"You're not!" Kyle fights the urge to rip his hand free from Eric's ministrations, not at all okay with applying the word 'nursing' to this situation. "I refuse to believe that my ass announces to the world that I'm gay." He's sort of stunned when he realizes that he just said it without cringing or pausing or even thinking about it. He's gay: it's a thing he can say now, to the right people. It's a bit alarming that Eric falls into that category, but he does have a disarming quality about him, despite or maybe because of his total lack of charm.

"Believe it or not, doesn't matter," Eric says. "Your butt says it all. Maybe it's more like, the way you walk, I don't know. Like, you're sort of sassy or something. But anyway. Yes."

"Yes?"

"We can be friends." Eric snips the first bandage and secures it, avoiding Kyle's disbelieving stare. "With benefits," he adds, and Kyle snorts.

"How the hell am I going to eat?" he asks as Eric encloses his other hand in gauze. Eric gives him a shark-like grin, flashing his left canine.

"Aww, don't worry. I'll feed you."

"Like hell you will." Kyle thinks of Stan and feels all fluttery, considering the fact that Stan might need to be his full time aide until his hands heal. The idea is embarrassing, but also amazing.

He's disappointed when his blood sugar meter tells him that he doesn't require an injection prior to his mid-day snack, and he wonders where Stan is during their afternoon workshops. He hurries to the nurse's station before dinner, feeling a bit stupid with his hands wrapped into useless mittens of gauze. So far everyone has bought his dumb sunburn story, and Eric hasn't told them otherwise. Kyle has to knock on the door of the nurse's station with his elbow.

After a few clumsy knocks, Stan pulls the door open. He smiles when he sees Kyle, and his face falls when he notices the bandages.

"Dude!" He takes hold of Kyle's left arm and pulls him into the nurse's station as if it's not safe to be outside. "What the hell happened?"

"Sunburn," Kyle says, and he groans, because he doesn't want to lie to Stan. "I mean. I also may have, uh. Destroyed a shrub with my bare hands."

"You - what now?" Stan shuts the door and brings Kyle over to the examining table. Something about the bandages seems to have erased his reluctance to touch Kyle, which is a very good thing. He seems agitated, his eyes wide and frantic, and Kyle realizes that having bandages so close to his wrists after coming out doesn't exactly look like a good sign.

"I pulled up a shrub," Kyle says. He eyes the examining table, not sure if he'll be able to hop up onto it without the use of his hands. Stan notices this and brings a chair over. "Thanks," Kyle says, and he sits.

"You pulled up a shrub?" Stan says, slowly, as if he's still trying to make sense of that statement. "Um, well. What?"

"It was Craig's fault! He was being a total jerk to me in class. What is his problem - he's the one - I mean - I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Shh, okay, calm down." Stan sighs and kneels in front of Kyle, shaking his head. "I knew seeing that would screw you up. Shit, I'm so-"

"You don't have to be sorry! It's fine, really, except that Craig has it out for me now. Have you talked to him, uh - what did he say to you about all this?" Kyle wonders if they continued fucking after he ran off.

"Craig? Oh." Stan seems dazed; he keeps looking at Kyle's hands. "He basically just said that. Well."

"What?"

"He said I'd better keep you on my good side." Stan rolls his eyes, and Kyle's heart drops ten stories. How had he not even considered that Stan was being nice to him for insurance purposes? But he was nice before. "Craig's such a fucking - oh, hey." Stan sees Kyle's face and pats his knee. "He didn't know we were already buddies. But what the hell - a shrub? I don't get it."

"Sometimes when I get angry, I destroy things."

"Oh. That's cool."

"It's not really that cool." Kyle fidgets, checking Stan's eyes for signs that he's faking this friendliness. All he finds there is the same earnest sweetness Stan has shown him since he arrived.

"I guess cool isn't the right word," Stan says. He gets up and goes to the fridge for Kyle's insulin. "But when I get angry I just, like, shut down. Maybe it's better to let it out, as long as you don't hurt anyone."

"Well. I hurt an innocent shrub. And myself, I guess."

"Mhmm." Stan comes back to the chair and kneels down again, peering up into Kyle's face. He's looking for something, too: pain, damage, signs for concern. "Is it, um. Something you think you should talk to Mackey about? Something to do with what you told me this morning?"

"No. Craig just made me feel stupid in front of everyone. I kind of lose it when that happens."

"Gotcha." Stan looks down at the syringe and uncaps it. His hands look a little unsteady. "I'm really sorry Craig made you feel bad. I'll tell him to knock it off. Not sure he'll listen to me, but. Maybe I'm done with that asshole, anyway." He's rambling, staring at the needle. "I guess I've got to do this for you, huh?"

"Seems that way," Kyle says, holding up his bandaged hands. He's been nervously anticipating this moment all day, wanting Stan to touch him, even if it's with a syringe full of insulin. "You'll do fine," Kyle says. "I'll talk you through it."

"Ha, yeah." Stan swallows, and he's close enough that Kyle can hear it. Kyle wants to peck his cheeks; Stan is very cute when he's nervous, not surprisingly. He lifts up Kyle's shirt, and suddenly the whole moment is less adorable and more terrifying: Kyle could possibly get an erection from this. Stan's hands are touching his pudgy stomach, then squeezing it.

"Deeper," Kyle says when Stan manages to prick him, Kyle's flab pinched between two fingers.

"What - huh?" Stan's face is red. Kyle grins, feeling like the more mature one here, suddenly.

"Push it in deeper."

"Oh - how-"

"I'll tell you when to stop. Good, yeah. Now stop pinching. You can inject it now, slow and steady. That's good, like that. Uh-huh, good. Leave it there for five seconds."

They're both red in the face when Stan has extracted the needle. Kyle gives him an appreciative smile, and Stan lets his breath out before smiling back.

"Sorry I'm such a pussy," Stan says. "I just really - really don't want to hurt you."

"You didn't. You did great." For a second it almost seems like it would be appropriate to give Stan's cheek a friendly kiss. Fortunately, he stands and goes back to the fridge before Kyle can do anything so insane.

"So, um," Stan says, lingering at the fridge. "You're okay?"

"Yeah, totally. You did it perfect."

"No, I mean - generally?"

"Uh-huh. Are you?" Kyle asks, for the second time that day. Stan laughs and rubs a hand over his face.

"Just starting to feel like it's going to be a weird summer," he says. Kyle isn't sure how to interpret this, but he likes the fact that Stan is still blushing.

Dinner is a salmon burger on a whole wheat bun. Kyle finds it fairly disgusting, and it's embarrassing to be fed bite size pieces of his burger by Bebe, but he's in a good mood.

"Lucky," Clyde says as Kyle accepts a bite of the accompanying coleslaw from Bebe's fork. He allows her to dab at his lips with a napkin as he chews.

"Hmm?" Kyle says, still chewing. This coleslaw is gross. Clyde just shrugs and watches longingly as Bebe feeds Kyle another bite of the burger. She seems to be enjoying this, and hasn't eaten much of her own dinner.

"I have some really good aloe lotion if you want to put it on your hands," Bebe says.

"Uh, that's okay. Thanks, though. " Kyle glances at Eric, but he's looking at Bebe, sort of snarling in her direction. Kyle supposes Eric is jealous of her and longing to feed Kyle himself. He's mostly repulsed by the idea of opening his mouth for Eric for any reason, but he is enjoying the thought that someone is longing for him, even if that person is a friendless oaf who claims to have given a lot of head in juvenile detention. Kyle has to start somewhere, in terms of being admired.

After dinner there's a camp-wide gathering around a bonfire. The bonfire area is large and circled by low benches made from what appear to be the trunks of fallen desert trees, and the night is cool enough to make Kyle wish he'd brought his windbreaker. He takes a seat between Eric and Bebe, who seems slightly attached to him now that he's lost the use of his hands.

"Welcome!" Wendy says as the last of the campers file in. The youngest ones are chatty and loud, and the middle group is rowdy, the boys trying to flirt with the girls in an immature way that gives Kyle secondhand embarrassment. He thinks he's done pretty well today, flirting-wise. He's maintained a sophisticated approach, even with Eric, the destruction of the shrub notwithstanding. "Guys, quiet down!" Wendy shouts, and the younger campers respond to the authoritative volume of her voice for the most part, a few still whispering and giggling. "We have a special treat for you tonight," Wendy says.

"Every piss we take is a 'special treat' according to this bitch," Eric mutters.

"She's not a bitch," Bebe says, giving him a disdainful look.

"Yeah, c'mon," Kyle says, and he smirks when Eric glares at him. He turns back to the bonfire and is glad to see Stan coming up the lit path they took from the center of camp. When Kyle sees that Stan is carrying an acoustic guitar he feels that secondhand embarrassment again.

"Oh boy," Eric says. "Here we fuckin' go with this asshole."

"Shh!" Kyle says. Something about Stan seems off once he reaches the circle. He keeps hiking up his pants and grinning at Wendy in a way that seems to be annoying her. She's having a muted discussion with him, frowning.

"S'fine, c'mon," Stan says, brushing her off. "Hey, guys!" He hoists the guitar, gesturing to it theatrically with his other hand. "How about some music, huh? A sing-a-long? Whatta'ya say?"

A couple of the younger kids cheer, and some of the pre-adolescents snicker and cough into their fists. At least one of them coughs the word 'gay.' Kyle is mortified on Stan's behalf, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. He sits down with his guitar near the younger kids and starts humming to himself as he strums it.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Eric says. "Look, Kyle. Your hippie friend is drunk off his ass."

"He is not." Kyle gets hot through his chest and up the back of his neck, his fingers flexing inside their bandages.

"Like hell he's not. I know drunk people, okay? That douche is hammered. And now we get to listen to him warble for god knows how long. Oh joyous day."

"What should we start out with?" Stan asks. "Any requests?"

Silence. Kyle can hear the bonfire crackling, and he feels like he's roasting within it. Is this his fault? Did he drive Stan to drink by barging in on his tryst with Craig and forcing him to talk about his sexuality?

"How about 'Climb Every Mountain'?" Wendy says, and Kyle knows Eric must be right. Stan is drunk, and Wendy looks ready to kill him for it.

"Nah, that's lame," Stan says, and when a couple of the kids laugh, he laughs along with them. "How about some Paul Simon. Do you guys like him?"

Without waiting for an answer, he starts playing "You Can Call Me Al." He's actually pretty good, and seems less drunk when singing. Still, Kyle is very uncomfortable, reeling. Stan seems so different like this, jocular and slightly arrogant. He hasn't looked at Kyle once.

He's not sure why this should feel so personally hurtful, but he feels increasingly rejected as Stan cycles through Paul Simon songs, performing this weird version of himself for everyone else. Kyle tells himself to stop being so ridiculous: it's not as if he ever had any claim on Stan, really, even as a friend. The guy was just doing his job. Kyle rests his elbow against Eric's arm, hoping it will seem accidental. Eric clears his throat and presses his arm more firmly against Kyle's. Eric's skin feels overheated and soft, like a half-baked loaf of bread. That's how Kyle feels, too: half formed. Maybe he can get to the end of this summer with a crusty exterior in place of his old dough boy self. That would be okay with him. He doesn't have much use for how raw he feels right now.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of Kyle's first week at camp is comparatively normal, but he's still on guard at all times, waiting for the next jarring surprise. He has learned, at least, to knock before entering any door that's even semi-closed, and to lock the bathroom door when he showers. By his sixth day at camp he's also feeling slightly different: not thinner but less heavy, not constantly in the wake of his most recent binge. He can't see any difference in his physique in the mirror, and no one else is visibly lighter, but there's already more of a sense of optimism among most of the campers. There's also less complaining at meal times, with the exception of Henrietta and Eric, who continue to complain about everything.

Kyle still looks forward to his visits to the nurse's station, though he's been less talkative with Stan since that strange campfire performance. Craig hasn't made an example of Kyle or singled him out again, and he hasn't yet taught the lesson he threatened to give on why Kyle was wrong about Eric's request for extra calories. Kyle wonders if Stan had a talk with Craig about being nicer to him, but he doesn't ask. He also doesn't ask if Stan and Craig are still fucking, and he's not sure how he feels about the fact that Stan hasn't brought up Craig at all since their initial discussion about him. It's good, in a way, because Kyle had fooled himself into believing he could be a real friend to Stan, which was of course ridiculous. But it's also awful, because they see each other at least three times a day, and Kyle feels like there's an awkward tension hovering between them.

"The end of your first week," Stan says on Sunday as he watches Kyle do his injection. Kyle's hands have healed for the most part, though the cuts are still visible. He's dreading discussing the shrub-killing incident with Mackey during his next individual therapy session, and has been considering sitting on his hands, though that will probably make them more conspicuous.

"It's been an okay week," Kyle says, handing Stan the syringe when he's finished. They exchange a glance, and Kyle smiles apologetically when he sees how concerned Stan looks. In the mornings, Stan is usually pale-faced and tired, with bags under his eyes, and today is no exception. "I mean, it's been good," Kyle says. "It's nice to be away from home. Away from my mom."

"She's pretty hard on you?"

"Nah, well - yes, but only about school. I guess I'd have a curfew if I ever went out, but I don't. She's hard on me about the food stuff. She didn't used to be, until I started getting really, uh, big. I guess she feels guilty about that."

"Sure, yeah." Stan goes to the refrigerated cabinet to put Kyle's supplies away, and Kyle's heart sinks. He'd thought for a moment there that they were going to have a real conversation, the way they had during Kyle's first few days here. Kyle isn't sure what he did wrong. Did Craig tell Stan to be careful, not to get close to the kid who has dirt on them? Kyle is still tempted to blame everything on Craig.

"Stan?" he says, not wanting to be ushered off to breakfast yet.

"Yeah?"

"Um." Kyle was going to ask about Craig, but he can't bring himself to do it. "I was just, uh. Remember how I told you I wanted to sort of mentor one of my bunkmates? Or inspire him, kinda?"

"Oh, yeah." Stan brightens a little and walks closer. "How's that going?"

"Well, fine." Kyle kicks his feet, still seated on the examining table. Part of him wants to tell Stan about how things have really been going with Eric, especially since it might be a good opportunity to allow Stan to discuss his own weirdness with Craig, but he can't work up the nerve. "He's, um. He's difficult, though. Resistant to change. And he's always bragging about the dumbest shit, like how he's been to juvenile detention, like that makes him all tough." And sexually experienced, apparently, but Kyle doesn't feel like he can mention that either. Stan raises his eyebrows.

"A boy in your cabin says he's been to juvenile detention? Um, I really doubt that's true. Mackey is super selective about who he accepts here, according to Wendy. Especially the scholarship students."

"So you do know I'm talking about Eric."

"I just sort of figured." Stan comes over to the examining table and leans beside Kyle, who makes his back a little straighter, thrilled by this sudden closeness. Stan looks so tired, and Kyle elbows him when he yawns.

"You okay?" Kyle asks, keeping his voice low, though they're alone in the nurse's station as usual. Stan smiles, and Kyle feels it in his gut, a prick of warmth that spreads outward.

"I'm alright," Stan says, mumbling this in an unconvincing way. "There's this-" He pauses and looks down at his left hand, picking at a hangnail. If Eric picks at himself Kyle will snap at him for being disgusting, but with Stan it's pretty cute. "Wendy's a little annoyed with me," he says.

"Yeah? How come?"

"It's just - we're stuck in this town all summer, right? And there's nothing to do at night but hang out with Craig or go to this bar in town." He looks up at Kyle. "It's a biker bar."

"Oh, Jesus. A gay one?"

Stan laughs hard, his smile turning big and genuine. Kyle feels stupid, but he grins anyway, shoving Stan's shoulder.

"No, not a gay one." Stan shoves Kyle back, lightly, and it fills Kyle with a jittery energy that makes him feel like a wind-up toy, like he might bounce right over the edge of the examining table with self-contained excitement. "It's just a bar for people passing through town, mostly bikers," Stan says. "It's not as hardcore as it sounds. Shit, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Well, I asked. And I like it when you tell me things," Kyle adds, more quietly.

"That's-" Stan sighs and looks away, tossing his hand out and letting it flop back against his thigh. "Well, I'm glad. And look, don't let that Eric kid intimidate you. There's no way he's been to juvenile detention. Mackey doesn't want those kinds of kids here, it's too much of a risk. They'd bully the other kids when they're vulnerable, during the process. And if Eric's not responding to your efforts to help him, well, that's his loss. Don't waste too much energy on it."

"I won't," Kyle says, though there's really nothing else here to spend his mental energy on, other than endless wondering about Stan's whereabouts. "So Wendy doesn't want you going to this bar?"

"I'm underage," Stan says, and Kyle flushes with embarrassed pleasure when he remembers that Stan is only nineteen. Something about Stan seems so world-weary and grown up, and his arms are hairy, strong-looking like a man's. He has stubble, too, some mornings, mostly along his jaw.

"They don't card you?" Kyle says.

"Nah. This place - they don't care."

"Or they just think you look old enough." That's Kyle's theory. Stan shrugs.

"I shouldn't go back. I could get in big trouble. Lose this job, for one thing."

"Do you like this job?" Kyle's heart pounds after the question is out. He feels like he's asking if Stan likes him, which is absurd, but of course that's exactly what he wants to know.

"I love it," Stan says, surprising him. They hold each other's gaze for a moment, and Kyle feels himself beginning to overheat, the red on his cheeks spreading back to his ears.

"That's good," Kyle says when he finds his voice.

"It's just so real, you know? Helping kids? As opposed to like, helping them win fucking football games. That's so - I know it builds character or whatever, but this feels more important, or more direct. I just want to be good at this." Stan pushes off the examining table and moves away, still facing Kyle. "So please, like. Please tell me if I'm screwing up. I know it's not your job to know, but - ah. I feel like I already messed up your experience."

"Stan! What! I told you-"

"Yeah, I know, you told me, but it's not right. What you saw, and how. How you're telling me about the other stuff, and not telling Mackey. I mean, it's your choice, but I'm not exactly qualified. Just because I'm, uh. You know."

"Gay?" Kyle says this a little sharply, annoyed with Stan's waffling, and his inability to trust Kyle to know who he wants to share certain information with. He must view Kyle as very young, incapable of really knowing himself. Stan nods glumly.

"Yep," he says. "I'm not just the least qualified counselor to help you with like, anything. I'm also the least qualified gay guy."

"You looked pretty qualified in the laundry room," Kyle says without thinking, and he's so horrified when he hears this that he actually slaps his hand over his mouth. Eric has been an awful influence on him, always blurting whatever pops into his head. Stan looks horrified, too, but only for a moment, and when he starts laughing Kyle does, too, his hand still pressed over his mouth.

"Alright, smart ass," Stan says. He's grinning, backing toward the door and beckoning for Kyle to follow. "You're late for breakfast."

It's hot outside, the sky cloudless as usual. Kyle has actually begun to remember his sunscreen, so he doesn't hurry his steps under the glare of the morning sun, and he walks as close as he can to Stan without being obvious. Or maybe he is being obvious: would it really matter? If he's just a young kid in Stan's eyes, confused and unsure of himself, how much could Kyle's crush really bother him? He might just take it as a compliment. Kyle's flirtations with Eric have made him realize that he's not just a passive lump waiting for someone desperate to come along. He can do things: he can have an affect on people. It won't always be positive - he's not delusional enough to think he's capable of enticing a near-man like Stan - but experimenting with boundaries has been interesting, and it was so nice to give Stan a playful shove and get one in return.

"Token's leading our workout later," Kyle says as they come to the main building. "When are you gonna lead one?"

"They're working me up to that," Stan says. "I'm gonna take you guys on a hike next week. I mean, Wendy will be there, too, but I'm gonna lead."

"Will we see sheep?" Kyle asks. Stan has mentioned that there are bighorn sheep in the mountains, elusive and majestic. He seems slightly obsessed with them, and his eyes light up when Kyle mentions them.

"I hope so," he says. "I picked a trail where there's lots of sage growing, and we're going early in the morning, so maybe we'll get lucky."

Kyle feels himself grinning stupidly and waves, heading for the dining room. When Stan heads down the hallway instead of following him in, Kyle hopes he's not going to see Craig. Does Craig appreciate Stan's love of bighorn sheep, or does he tell Stan they're stupid pack animals that will probably be extinct in twenty years? It seems like the kind of asshole remark Craig might make, in bed, after fucking Stan. Kyle pictures Craig smoking a cigarette in this scenario, though he's a health freak who probably wouldn't allow tobacco within a forty mile radius of his bedroom.

"Hey, dude, you awake?" Kenny says, and Kyle looks up from his lurid daydream. He's the only one at the cafeteria counter, as usual, everyone else nearly finished with their breakfast, loud conversations taking place at every table. Kyle can hear Eric's voice over the rabble, and he wonders if Eric is watching him from across the room. As usual, he can't decide if he wants that or not.

"Sorry," he says to Kenny, who is sliding whole wheat toast and chicken sausage patties onto his tray. "I was just thinking about, um. Hiking."

"Hiking, that's cool." Kenny winks and gives Kyle an extra cup of fruit salad. "You can pass some of that to Andre the Giant if you don't want it," he says, glancing at the counselors' table. Wendy is writing furiously on a notepad and Token is examining his phone.

"Andre the Giant?" Kyle says.

"Monsieur Cartman. He's your buddy, right?"

"I don't know." Kyle raises his lip a little, wondering how Kenny noticed that. He sort of blends in with the scenery; Kyle supposes that might make him a particularly observant employee.

"Enjoy your breakfast, señor." Kenny winks again, and Kyle gives him an uncertain smile, still not sure what his deal is.

"Fucking finally!" Eric says when Kyle takes the seat beside him that Eric always saves. Kyle wonders if this is what having a boyfriend is like, then feels pathetic for likening Eric to one. It's not as if they've even touched, aside from the occasional coy brush of Kyle's arm against Eric's, but Eric is always sort of circling him, and Kyle hasn't discouraged it. "Was that drunken hippie late or something?" Eric asks when Kyle ignores him, eating half a sausage patty in one bite.

"He was on time," Kyle says after he's chewed and swallowed. "I just wasn't in a particular hurry. Not all of us break into a frantic run at the prospect of a meal."

"As if he's ever voluntarily run anywhere," Henrietta says, and Eric glowers at her. They're always ripping on each other, and Kyle isn't sure why, but suspects it's something to do with the fact that they both have the most weight to lose.

"What's with the extra fruit cup?" Clyde asks, eying it.

"I got it for Eric." Kyle places it on Eric's tray, not bothering to return his bewildered stare. "The cafeteria guy agrees with me. Bigger bodies require more calories. I mean, duh."

"Try explaining that to Craig a second time," Rebecca says. "I dare you." She smiles when Kyle gives her an irritated look.

"He knew I was right," Kyle says. "He's so unpleasant."

"I'm scared to make eye contact with him," Butters says, nodding. "Like he's gonna slap me or something." This makes Bebe and Tammy giggle, and Butters beams at them appreciatively, as if he meant for that to be funny.

Their morning workout was step aerobics with Wendy, and Kyle is too exhausted to bother with the game room during free hour. He's a little nervous about allowing Eric to trail him back to the cabin, however. Clyde and Tammy have already begun to tease them about all the time they spend there together, and Kyle isn't sure how much longer he can hold Eric at an arm's length, enjoying his attention but unsure about what to do with it.

"You really have to put that shit on again?" Eric asks when they're in the cabin, Kyle slathering on sunscreen while Eric watches, reclining in his bed. Sometimes Kyle does this in the bathroom, and sometimes he likes the feeling of being admired while he rubs the stuff onto his skin.

"Every two to three hours," Kyle says, quoting his mother. "You're burned. You want some?"

"Nah, I prefer not to look like a lily white lady, thanks."

"So much better to look like a lobster."

Kyle is glad he caught himself before he could say 'over-sized lobster.' He didn't even mean it the sense that Eric is fat, but the group therapy sessions have taught him to be careful about the size-related language he uses.

"I don't look like a lobster," Eric says. "I look like a man who's not afraid of a little sunlight. Check it out, my arms are tanned."

He says so like he's never had a tan before, and Kyle would bet he hasn't. Though Eric makes lots of claims about his fantastic life at home, Kyle has gotten the impression that he actually spends a lot of time alone in the dark of his basement, playing video games or trolling Reddit. He glances up from his sunscreen application when Eric sits on his bed, thrusting out his arm to show Kyle his tan. It's true: he's taken on a golden hue that makes his arms look slightly less blubbery. Or maybe he's actually lost some weight.

"Do you think they'll weigh us tomorrow?" Kyle asks, nervous about this. "At the one week mark?"

"I don't know." Eric curls his arm, admiring his bicep, which is big but not particularly firm-looking. "Maybe I gained weight. Muscle, I mean."

"You feel stronger?"

Eric glances at Kyle, giving him the salacious look that Kyle has come to expect if he says anything remotely complimentary. Kyle rolls his eyes.

"I bet I could bench press you," Eric says.

"Uh-huh. I kinda doubt it."

"You're like half my size."

Kyle looks down at the sunscreen bottle, taken off guard by how much he likes hearing that. It's not exactly true, but Eric is significantly bigger. Kyle isn't used to this feeling when it comes other boys. There are plenty at school who are taller than him, but those guys tend to be thin, lanky, and Kyle feels like a melting dollop of sour cream when he has to stand next to them in a lineup during gym class.

"But don't worry," Eric says, putting his meaty hand on Kyle's shoulder. "My dick still fits easily in the average mouth."

"Oh, I was so worried about that, thank you."

Kyle can feel his face going red, and he keeps his eyes down on his ankle, where he's painstakingly applying a small amount of sunscreen. He could shrug Eric's hand off, but he's not sure he wants to. Even through his shirt, he can feel the moistness of Eric's palm, and it makes him think of Stan's hands. Stan has smoothly calloused fingers from years of gripping footballs, and his palms have always felt dry, even when his hands shook as he gave Kyle his injections.

"Seriously," Eric says, and Kyle moves away when Eric squeezes his shoulder. Eric huffs and stands, then sits back down again. "Alright, fine," he says sharply. "I'll suck you off. You don't even have to reciprocate."

"Why would you offer that?" Kyle asks, beginning to feel uncomfortable. Their size difference isn't strictly appealing; Kyle would have a hard time fighting Eric off if it came to that, and he doesn't know Eric well enough to be sure that he won't try to overpower him when they're alone together. Even so, he keeps getting himself into these situations during free hour.

"I just want to see what you're packing," Eric says. "And your ginger pubes."

"Well, you can't. So how's that?"

"What do you mean, 'how's that?' You're practically in heat, Kyle, I can smell it. Don't bullshit me."

"Don't bullshit you? Okay, right. How about you don't bullshit me with your juvenile detention crap. I bet you've never even sucked cock."

This seems to take the wind out of Eric's sails more effectively than Kyle expected. The color drains from Eric's face, leaving only the sunburn that's streaked from the high points of his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. He stands with a grunt and goes over to his bed, standing over it with his back to Kyle.

"Shows how much you know," Eric says. His voice sounds suddenly different, ragged. Kyle gets up, unable to stand being alone with him any longer. It's starting to feel too weird, like always.

"I'm going to the pool," Kyle says, confident that Eric won't follow him there. Only Butters has voluntarily bared his pudgy chest in daylight. "Look, whatever. Maybe you've sucked the cocks of every junior convict in Nebraska. What the hell do I know? Just stop telling me about it. If I want you to suck my dick, I'll ask."

Just saying that makes his heart beat fast, and he hurries to grab his swim trunks, forgetting his flip flops when he bolts from the cabin. Outside, the sun is glaring, and Kyle knows his fresh layer of sunscreen hasn't had time to sink in yet. He hurries along the stone path and even considers running, but he's too tired and sore from the morning's workout. Something weird just happened in the cabin, beyond the usual dick sucking banter, but he doesn't really want to know why. He hopes that the pool will be empty, but of course it isn't: the girls are there, minus Henrietta, and Butters is doggy-paddling across the pool. Clyde is sitting in the shade of the gazebo, looking miserable and hot.

"Hey, Kyle!" Tammy calls before he can decide if he wants to turn back. He waves, feeling stupid and wondering if they've all been gossiping about what he and Eric might have been up to in the cabin.

"Heya!" Butters says when Kyle walks in through the pool gate. "Good to see you outside during the afternoon!"

"We were theorizing that you were a vampire," Rebecca says. She's wading in the shallow end, her bathing suit a surprisingly frilly red one-piece. "We thought maybe Eric was hunting you or something. He has a Van Helsing-ish quality."

"I doubt there are many red haired vampires," Kyle says, not even sure why he said that and beginning to wish he had just stayed in the cabin with Eric and his weirdness, where at least it was shady and cool. "I, uh. I'm gonna change." He holds up his swim trunks, wondering if he should leave his shirt on when he gets in the pool. It's such an obvious fat kid move, but he doesn't want them looking at his flabby white chest.

The boys' locker room that adjoins the pool deck is damp and shadowy, and it doesn't seem to be air conditioned. Kyle is sweating as he changes into his trunks. Unlike the rest of their camp wardrobe, they were allowed to bring their own bathing suits from home. Kyle's trunks are knee-length, dark green and slightly over-sized, which hopefully makes his bulging waist look smaller, but probably not. He stands in front of the mirror in the locker room for a long time, examining himself. He doesn't look that bad in the dim lighting, just puffy and too pale. He tells himself there are worse things and takes a deep breath, leaving his shirt behind in one of the day lockers, along with his underwear and shorts.

As soon as he leaves the locker room and walks out into the sunlight he regrets his decision to expose himself, but they've already seen him and he can't run back in. At least he's braver than Clyde, though Clyde's reluctance to enter the pool may have more to do with his colostomy bag than his physique. Kyle approaches warily, not sure where to put his hands. When he reaches the deep end of the pool he jumps in, eager to hide, and shrieks at the temperature just before he goes under. There is no way a desert pool should be this cold. Everyone is laughing when he surfaces, even Clyde.

"It's fucking cold!" Kyle says angrily, treading water and wanting to flick them all off.

"You'll warm up quick!" Rebecca says.

"Oh my god," Tammy says, still laughing. Bebe and Butters are, too, but they're trying to be discreet about it. Clyde's laugh is an annoying nasal 'heh heh heh,' unsurprisingly. "The way you screamed!" Tammy says when Kyle swims toward the group in the shallow end. "That was so cute."

"Very endearing," Rebecca says, as if this will make him feel better.

"Now we can play chicken!" Tammy says. She swims over to Kyle and grabs his arm. He wants to shake her off, instantly intimidated. She seems much bigger up close, particularly in the chest area, her boobs floating near Kyle's arm. "I get Kyle," she says. "Bebe, you can have Butters."

"Oh boy!" Butters says, swimming over to Bebe, who throws her arms around his shoulders like they're the best of friends. They could be siblings, blond and smiley, plump only in a ripe-looking way. Kyle glances at Tammy, who is grinning at him expectantly.

"What is chicken?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"It's like this," Bebe says, clambering onto Butters when he ducks down into the water. When he stands again he lifts Bebe up onto his shoulders. Bebe has her thighs pressed tightly to Butters' neck, her hands on top of his head. Butters' whole head is essentially cradled in Bebe's vagina-area, horrifyingly. Butters is blushing; he looks very pleased with himself. Kyle really doesn't want Tammy sitting on him like that.

"See," she says, tugging on Kyle's arm. "You guys hold us up and we fight with our arms, and whoever knocks the other girl off first wins!"

"Ugh," Kyle says, unable to conceal his complete lack of interest in doing any of that. He glances at Rebecca, who is giving him a knowing smile that also annoys him. "Clyde, can't you do this?" Kyle calls. "I'm not very, uh. Good at balance."

"I can't swim right now," Clyde says sourly.

"I'll hoist you," Rebecca says to Tammy. "If you don't mind a female platform."

"Oh - that's fine!" Tammy gives Kyle a sad smile as she moves away from him. He feels cruel, but also relieved when she gets up on Rebecca's shoulders instead. Kyle swims back into the deep end, not wanting to get embroiled in this game in any way. He's surprised to see Eric coming up the walk, headed toward the pool. He's wearing red shorts with a white tropical flower pattern - swim trunks? Kyle hovers in the deep end, wondering if Eric is actually going to get in the pool, and if he'll remove his Mackey t-shirt when he does. He's not sure if he's impressed or irritated by Eric's determination to be near him. It's transparent in a refreshing way, and also embarrassing.

Eric enters the pool area and pretends not to notice Kyle hanging on to the side in the deep end. He stands near the gate and frowns at the game of chicken as it plays out: Tammy and Bebe are laughing, trying to fling each other of off their partners' shoulders. Kyle thinks it looks much more fun to be the person on top, although Rebecca and Butters appear to be having a good time, too, cheering their partners on. Kyle lifts his hand from the water in a listless greeting when Eric finally looks at him, and feels pathetically rejected when Eric goes to sit with Clyde in the gazebo.

Determined not to fixate on Eric's presence, Kyle does underwater flips in the deep end of the pool. They were his favorite thing as a kid: he likes the disoriented feeling at the tipping point, when his stomach turns over, and the relief of breaking the surface without getting water up his nose. He used to be able to flip into the water from the diving board and the rim of the pool, used to spend hours diving through inner tubes with his brother. It's been a long time since he went anywhere near a pool; at least three years. Even the heat of the sun is nice, finally more than just a menace to flee from, and the water now feels perfectly cool instead of icy. He surges up to grab the end of the diving board and hangs there for a while, his back to everyone else. He always loved this as a kid, and it still feels good: like he's weightless and strong at the same time. He sees something out of the corner of his eye and lets go of the board when he realizes it's Eric, barefoot in his swim trunks and Mackey shirt, approaching the deep end.

Kyle is rather buoyant, and when he slips underwater he fights to stay below the surface, holding his breath and watching the shadow of Eric from above. Eric climbs onto the diving board, which bends under his weight. Kyle moves away in case it snaps in half, and he has to gasp for air when he finally surfaces, his lungs burning. Eric is staring down at him, his expression uncharacteristically stony.

"Gonna dive?" Kyle asks, feeling stupid. He swims to the edge of the pool, fearing the massive cannonball splash that Eric's impact will send up.

Eric doesn't answer. He looks uncertain on the diving board, like he shares Kyle's fear that it might buckle and break under his weight. He lingers a few feet back from the very edge, watching as Tammy successfully dislodges Bebe from Butters' shoulders. Kyle keeps his eyes on Eric, awaiting a comment about the fact that his pasty white tits are bobbing in the water. Or maybe they're not bobbing, exactly, not the way Tammy's do; Kyle's just sort of waft.

"What's Clyde's problem?" Kyle says, and he feels cruel but doesn't know what else to say. Eric appears to be waiting for something, and he's exuding a troubling energy that makes Kyle wonder if Eric's classmates back home are ever afraid that the fat loner with the beauty queen mom will burn down the school.

"Fine, asshole," Eric says, and Kyle is relieved when Eric finally looks at him, because he doesn't seem angry, exactly. "I never actually got busted for anything. I'm too smart for the juvenile court system. But that doesn't mean I don't know how to suck dick. I just didn't think you could handle the truth about how hardcore I really am."

"Okay." Kyle scoffs and hangs on to the edge of the pool, raising his eyebrows when Eric just stares at him.

"My mom's boyfriend taught me," Eric says. He gives Kyle a phony smirk and flings himself forward, bouncing hard on the end of the diving board. He doesn't get very high, but his splash is massive anyway, earthquaking the whole deep end and soaking Kyle. Eric swims away from him, underwater, looking like the Loch Ness monster as he moves toward the other kids. Kyle stays in place, trying to process what Eric just said. It didn't seem like another lie, but what does that mean? Eric had an affair with his mother's boyfriend? It seems unlikely, and Kyle's stomach curdles when he considers the other scenarios in which this could be true, like a bedroom door opening late at night, some pervert tiptoeing toward a sleeping kid who was Eric two hundred pounds ago. Kyle shudders and climbs out of the pool. He sits on the edge, not even thinking about his jelly rolls. Nobody is looking at him, anyway. Eric is pointedly ignoring him again, allowing Tammy to climb onto his massive shoulders for another round of chicken.

They stay at the pool until Wendy shows up and tells them to get ready for nutrition class and lunch. Kyle dresses alone in the boys' locker room while the others head back to the cabin. He feels shaky and strange, and he's glad he'll see Stan soon, though what Eric said is not something that Kyle can share with him. It's too potentially terrible, and too personal, and he doesn't want to sell Eric out, though maybe he needs help? Is his mother still with this guy? How old was he when this happened? Kyle will have to be delicate with his questions if he gets the nerve to ask them, but he's not sure that he wants to know more. It's just a glimpse of what's beneath the surface of Eric's defensive posturing, and already worse than Kyle expected, though not in the way he feared.

"What's wrong?" Stan asks when Kyle lingers on the examining table after doing his injection. It takes Kyle a moment to really hear the question; his mind was wandering. He shakes his head.

"I just hate Nutrition class," he says, blurting the first thing that comes to mind. "And Craig."

"Oh, yeah." Stan looks down at the spent syringe, turning it over in his hands. "Is he, uh. Still being rude to you?"

"No. Did you tell him to be nice?"

"No!" Stan looks up as if Kyle has accused him of something dastardly. "No, I. Me and Craig don't talk that much."

"How do you get from not talking to - laundry machines?"

Kyle regrets this as soon as he's said it; it's not a fun joke like the one he accidentally made about the laundry room this morning. Stan turns away from him and starts putting supplies away.

"Sorry," Kyle says. "I had - I swam. For the first time in forever. I'm kinda. It's been another weird day."

"Another weird day." Stan laughs and shuts the cabinet. He's smiling when he turns back to Kyle. "I can smell it on you," he says. "Chlorine – the pool."

"Yeah." Kyle likes this smell. It makes him feel like an outdoorsman, or at least a regular boy who's doing something with his summer. "Anyway. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, dude. I just don't know how to explain it. Sometimes you just - fall into something. Like - some people can knock you on your ass with one look, you know? Craig does that, to me."

Kyle goes to class in a bad mood, hating Craig more than ever. He can't get that phrase out of his head as he enters the classroom and takes his seat beside Eric. _Some people can knock you on your ass with one look_. Craig is kind of good looking, in an angular way, and certainly intense. He's thin, tall, mature. So that's the type of guy who can knock Stan over without even needing to speak. Bend him over, more like, Kyle thinks bitterly. He glances over at Eric, who is sitting with his elbows on their workstation and staring at the front of the classroom, his chin in his hand.

"What do you think we're making today?" Kyle asks, surveying the ingredients that have been set out: chicken, cherry tomatoes, yellow bell pepper and a few other things. Eric shrugs and looks down at the whisk he's rolling against the countertop.

"Some health food shit," he says.

"Yeah." Kyle fidgets, glances at Eric again, and wishes he knew what to say. He feels like he's being accused of something, of not caring, or of not being equipped to care properly. His plan to help Eric become a better person seems increasingly idiotic.

He's again able to get through Nutrition class without being the victim of Craig's cool condescension, and he does most of the work on the chicken kabobs that they grill for lunch. He doesn't season them well and they're not very good, dry and excessively bland, but Eric doesn't complain. He doesn't even try to eat some of Kyle's portion as usual, just sits there looking like a vaguely irritated zombie. Kyle wants to ask him if he's alright, but it feels like such a loaded question, and he's afraid to know the answer.

After class, Eric goes to the game room, which hurts Kyle's feelings but is also a relief. Kyle goes back to the cabin with plans to masturbate in the shower, but he can't get hard, too preoccupied with what Eric said, trying to envision the man who preyed on him. He wishes Eric hadn't told him, tries to convince himself it's just another lie, and feels terribly guilty. After his shower, he crawls into bed and tosses and turns until Butters comes to fetch him for group activity hour.

Eric is distant for the rest of the day, though he acts normal around the others, loud at dinner and complaining about the unholy deliciousness of Taco Bell during group therapy. Kyle stays mostly silent during group, feeling increasingly ill and not sure if it's because he needs insulin or if it's some other kind of imbalance. He checks his blood sugar and asks to go to the nurse's station when he sees that he needs an injection.

"Alright," Mackey says, "Go wait for Stan in the front lobby. I'll tell him to meet you there." He digs out his cell phone, and Kyle thrills at the thought that Stan has a phone number which might be acquired, though campers aren't allowed to have phones, and he's not delusional enough to think Stan wants to exchange texts with him.

He waits in the lobby, chilly in the air conditioning and increasingly worried about how soon he needs an injection and how long it's taking Stan to arrive. When Stan finally shows he's running toward the building from the direction of the front gates. Kyle slips out to meet him, wishing it was still warm. It's dark outside the flood of the building's lights, the sun long gone and the evening chill settled over the desert. Stan is audibly short of breath, and he takes Kyle off guard by grabbing both his arms when he reaches him.

"You alright?" Stan asks, staring down at Kyle like he might have a bullet wound. Stan's face is red, maybe from exertion, and there's a fuzzy panic in his eyes. Kyle figures it out when he smells Stan's breath: he can't tell if it's whiskey or bourbon or rum, but it's one of those things, heavy and unpleasantly warm.

"I'm - fine, I just need my insulin."

"Oh, shit, yeah." Stan steps back, a bit unsteadily, and pushes his hair off his forehead. "Sorry, like. I thought I was off duty. You're usually, uh. You usually don't need one after dinner."

He's slurring a little, but only on the word 'usually.' Kyle shrugs, his eyes burning as they walk together toward the nurse's station, though he knows he has no right to feel betrayed. It's not like Stan stood him up for a date. It takes Stan a few tries to get the key to the nurse's station to work, and he curses under his breath, his hands shaking. For the first time since they started this routine, he flips the lights on when they walk inside. Kyle doesn't like the way the room looks when it's illuminated impersonally. It's not their shadowy little cave, just a generic examining room that smells like bandages and ointment.

"You okay?" Stan asks after Kyle has done his injection. Stan is hovering, bouncing nervously on his the balls of his feet.

"I'm fine," Kyle says. He watches Stan put everything away, wanting to escape this unsteady, compromised version of Stan, though he did like it when Stan grabbed his arms like he was desperately worried about Kyle's well-being. It occurs to Kyle that maybe he could sneak in other touches while Stan is like this. The thought is both appealing and awful. He thinks of Eric, and the dizzying back and forth of wanting to float into his orbit and also stay just out of reach, how suddenly nothing is just one flat plane of joy or dread like most of his life has been so far.

"You went to the biker bar?" Kyle says when Stan finally meets his eyes.

"Wha - no." Stan laughs and looks away. "Nah, I. Me and Kenny. You know Kenny?"

"Uh, yeah. He serves me three meals a day."

"Right, yeah, him. He was - we were just hanging out. You okay?"

"Yeah. You keep asking me that."

"Sorry, dude. Just. Should I walk you to your cabin?"

"I can walk myself."

Kyle pushes out of the nurse's station, feeling childish but unable to suppress his annoyance. He heads toward the cabins, listening as Stan locks up behind him.

"Kyle!" Stan calls, too loud, and Kyle turns back. Stan waves. "'Night," he says. He looks worried, but only in a drunken, lopsided way.

"Does Craig know you drink?" Kyle asks, because maybe Stan won't remember this, anyway. He laughs.

"You kidding me? How'dya think he got me in the sack the first time? Shit. Here they come."

Kyle looks down the pathway to see his bunkmates and the girls coming toward them. Stan gives Kyle a weird little salute and darts off into the darkness, taking an alternate route back to wherever he came from. Kyle walks back to the cabin ahead of the others, comforted by their chatter behind him. He'd been nervous about encountering coyotes. Was Stan really going to let him walk back alone? He has no idea; maybe Stan is the kind of guy who's capable of anything while drinking. The fact that he let Craig fuck him while under the influence speaks volumes, Kyle thinks.

Back in the cabin, he isn't in the mood for socializing, and apparently neither is Eric, who climbs into bed before the others and pulls the blankets over his head. Kyle feels badly, almost responsible, but it's not as if he was hounding Eric for personal details. Eric was just offering them, but Kyle has a hard time falling asleep anyway, feeling guilty about Stan's condition, too, as if Kyle set that in motion by witnessing his laundry room activities with Craig. When the cabin goes quiet and he finally begins to drift off, he realizes they had no week one weigh-in. He's glad, though also wondering what he's shed so far. It mostly feels like he's taken things on: accessories and appendages both good and bad.

The following morning, Stan mentions nothing about the night before when they're together in the nurse's station. Kyle didn't expect him to, but he still feels disappointed, and he gets his feelings hurt again when Eric barely looks at him at breakfast. Kyle has his individual session with Mackey afterward, and he's glad to go, fleeing the inane conversations at the breakfast table and Eric's silent judgment, as if Kyle should actually know what to do with what he said. He's planning to vaguely allude to the situation when he's with Mackey, but once he gets there he can't manage to actually bring it up; it seems too dangerous, since he knows so little himself.

"I have this friend," he says when Mackey studies him for too long, making him nervous. "I think he has a drinking problem."

"Oh?" Mackey wags his foot a little, his pen poised over his notebook. "This is somebody from home? We talked before about how you don't have many friends there."

Kyle immediately regrets saying anything: is Mackey trying to figure out who he's talking about, assuming it's someone from camp? Kyle will never forgive himself if Mackey realizes that he's really talking about Stan.

"It's my little brother," Kyle blurts. "Ike. He's very, uh. Mature for his age. He's gotten into drinking, but – but. He doesn't think he has a problem."

"Mhmmkay, well. As far as I remember from your file, your little brother is only, um, ten years old?"

"Yeah, well, like I said, he's really – mature. He's always been like that. But I was just wondering – should I stay out of it? Is there anything I can do? It's really stressing me out."

Mackey studies him for a while, and Kyle's heart pounds. He feels so transparent that he's almost ready to shout that he's gay, just as a distraction, when Mackey finally speaks.

"What about your brother's, uh, drinking stresses you out, particularly?"

"Nothing – well, everything. Why is he so sad? Wha – it just seemed to happen all of a sudden, but maybe it's been going on for a while. I mean, I don't really know him. Uh, we're not close." That's true, recently. Ike is popular and active, beanpole thin. He looks at Kyle like he's worried about him, and, increasingly, like he doesn't want to be associated with whatever he's going through.

"I see. Have you talked to your mother about this?"

"No, she doesn't know – I don't want to tell her. Or anybody. It's his, like, business."

"Mhmm. Aren't you worried about your little brother's health?"

"I'm – yeah, but it's more like. Why does he feel like has to do this?"

"Well, Kyle, that's a very complicated question. People tend to turn to drugs and alcohol when they want to escape something. Is there something going on at home, or in your brother's personal life, something bad?"

"I don't know – if there was, he wouldn't tell me. I mean, he wouldn't want to, uh, upset me." Kyle groans and tips his head back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Talking about this was a bad idea; there's no way he can correlate Stan and his ten-year-old brother and get helpful advice. "You know what, never mind."

"Never mind?"

"Yeah, can we, like, come back to that? Some other time?"

"Well, sure, Kyle. Is there something you'd prefer to discuss?"

Kyle thinks about it: does he want to talk about the gay thing? The thing Eric said? The fact that he wants to rescue both Stan and Eric and is also afraid of getting any closer to whatever problems they might have?

"How'd you decide to become a therapist?" Kyle asks.

"Well. To be honest with you, Kyle, I had some difficult experiences during my childhood, mmkay, and I didn't get much help at that age. I wanted to become the kind of adult I needed back then, if that makes sense. Do you have any particular career aspirations?"

"I feel like I'm not good at anything."

"That's not an uncommon feeling at your age, so don't despair. Hopefully we can get you to a place, this summer, where you feel like you can explore your talents. Can I ask what happened to your hands?"

"Oh." Kyle was so preoccupied with Stan's and Eric's situations that he forgot to dread this discussion. "I, uh. Killed one of your shrubs when I was angry about something."

The rest of the session is devoted to Kyle's anger management issues, and he leaves Mackey's office feeling drained, glad when he doesn't pass Eric in the hallway on his way out. Last week Eric's session followed Kyle's: what will he say? Anything revealing, or just a bunch of overcompensating bullshit like what he tries to feed Kyle?

Kyle goes to the pool again during his free hour, and this time there's an obnoxious group of younger kids in the shallow end. He doesn't stay long, and on the walk back to his cabin he runs into Rebecca, who is carrying a black umbrella. Feeling a bit tender after exposing himself to so much sun yesterday, Kyle hurries to catch up with her and smiles gratefully when she allows him to share the shade of the umbrella.

"Where's Eric?" she asks.

"How should I know?"

"Oh, I thought you two were getting close or something."

"No. Just. He follows me around. He's weird." Kyle feels terrible for saying so, but he's not referring to Eric's comment at the pool yesterday, exactly. "Have you, uh, bonded with anybody?" he asks.

"With Henrietta, a little. She lent me this umbrella. She's pretty hard to get to know, though."

"Eric, too," Kyle says, though he already feels like he knows too much, just nothing of substance, or nothing that makes much sense. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"This is going to sound random, and you don't have to answer, but I wanted to ask someone who is, like, logical. And you seem pretty smart."

"I am." She looks at Kyle mildly after saying so, as if this is both completely valid and not particularly impressive.

"Okay. Well, what do you think about, like. Sex for the sake of sex? Like, sex without emotional attachment? I know it's sentimental to feel like it's weird, but isn't it a little weird?"

"Oh, interesting. I actually have a lot to say on this subject."

Kyle is not surprised. Though she's not attractive, traditionally or to him personally, there is something obliquely sensual about Rebecca. She seems open-minded, if nothing else, and was kind of eager to get Tammy's thighs around her neck yesterday at the pool.

"My experience is limited, sadly," she says. "But I have formulated a few opinions based on theory and general principles. I think the problem is twofold. One: in most circumstances it's hard to get someone to trust you enough to engage in sex acts with you without also developing a corresponding emotional attachment, however minimal. And two: it's hard to know, based purely on visual stimulation, if a potential partner can satisfy your needs before actually experimenting with them sexually. So there you have it."

"There you have it?"

"Once you're trusted enough to have sex with someone, either you or they will be invested on some level beyond what's purely physical, and if the experience is disappointing, that involvement will make discontinuing said sexual activity potentially unpleasant, possibly ending the relationship altogether. So my advice, I suppose, is to only engage in purely sexual experimentation with people who you aren't opposed to losing contact with afterward, should it go poorly."

"Yeah." Kyle thinks about this for a moment, in terms of Eric. "You can get an STD from a blow job, can't you?"

"Herpes, for one." Rebecca looks over at him and smiles. "But I think they have condoms at the nurse's station."

"I can't - I can't ask there, and anyway. I'm not. This is just theoretical."

"Of course. Look, if you're lucky enough to have no strings attached sex at our age, I applaud and encourage you, as long as you do it safely. But if your partner is a fellow teenager, keep in mind that most teenagers are irrational, highly emotional, and cruel when they feel threatened or hurt."

"I will keep that in mind, thanks."

Kyle is preoccupied for the rest of the day, reviewing his conversations with Mackey and Rebecca and waiting for Eric to act normal again. He's not acting abnormal, exactly, just seems to be avoiding any meaningful interaction with Kyle, who suspects this means he wasn't lying about mom's boyfriend and that was not an experience that he actually feels smug or 'hardcore' about. If Eric wants to be asked about it, Kyle isn't prepared to do that. Part of him wants to blab everything to Stan, but he's not really he can trust Stan to keep secrets. What if Stan gets drunk, tells Craig, and sets off some kind of criminal investigation? Should there be one? Is Eric asking Kyle to instigate something of the sort? Kyle's stomach hurts so much by dinnertime that he can barely get his veggie enchiladas down.

"What I would give for real Mexican food," Clyde says after he's vacuumed his enchiladas down.

"There's a Mexican restaurant in town," Eric says. "I saw it on the drive in."

"Field trip!" Tammy says, grinning at Kyle when he looks up from plate.

"You said it." Eric points his fork at her. "I'm making plans. Anyone who wants to join can pay me in cash to get in on it."

"What?" Kyle stares at Eric, but now he's preoccupied with scraping the remaining streaks of sour cream off his plate. "You can't be serious. You'd get in so much trouble." He considers what it would be like here if Eric got kicked out. Better? Not really, and Kyle feels unfinished, where Eric is concerned.

"Don't get your panties in a wad," Eric says. "I'm a master of stealth."

Kyle is so pleased that Eric is talking to him again - though still not looking at him - that he doesn't attempt to dispute this. He moves his foot against Eric's under the table, just slightly, bumping the sides of their sneakers together. Eric doesn't move away, and doesn't seem to hear Tammy's questions about how he plans to sneak out to a Mexican restaurant until she's asking for the third time, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

"Huh?" he barks, glaring at her. "Oh, just - don't worry about it. I have ways. Things are developing."

Kyle can't contain a snort, hearing that.

"Well, we've got a little plan, too," Bebe says, and she and Tammy grin at each other. "Not as fancy as escaping the camp, but we're going to meet up on the golf course tonight."

"For what?" Clyde asks. "You got food?"

"No food, but we thought we'd do some star gazing, just hang out, you know, without supervision." Bebe glances at Kyle, then Eric, then dissolves into giggles with Tammy. Kyle flushes, not sure if they're coming on to him or implying that he and Eric should put on a gay show for them. "What do you guys say?"

"I'm out," Kyle says. "You guys get in trouble if you want."

"I'll come!" Butters says. "Sounds real fun. I like looking at the stars."

"I may join you," Eric says pompously, examining his fork. "It could prove useful to my strategic information gathering."

"Strategic information gathering?" Kyle says, eying him. Eric just shrugs and goes back to scraping sour cream from his plate.

Back in the cabin, Kyle takes his evening shower and gets in bed with a book he borrowed from the library in the main building: a novel called _The Night Strangers_ that is supposed to be a 'riveting and dramatic ghost story.' It's boring so far, and Kyle puts it away when Token comes to the door at eleven to remind them that it's time for lights out. Kyle lies in bed and allows his eyes to adjust to the darkness, feeling too restless to sleep.

"Eric," Butters whispers after a few minutes have passed. "Psst!"

"What, fuckface?"

"We still sneaking out to meet the girls?"

"They're supposed to get us on their way to the golf course." Eric sits up in bed and looks over at Kyle. "You coming?" he asks.

"I –" Kyle realizes he wants to before he can say that he doesn't. "I guess. Okay."

Ten minutes later, there's a soft knock on the door. Butters bolts out of bed to answer it, and Tammy and Bebe are there, Henrietta lurking behind them on the path.

"Rebecca didn't come?" Kyle says as he steps into his flip flops, disappointed.

"She said she was too tired," Bebe says. "C'mon – hurry. I saw Stan patrolling around the pool."

"He won't get us in trouble," Kyle says, and Eric snorts skeptically.

They cut diagonally across the camp, heading for the sprawling golf course and keeping to the shadows. Kyle is nervous but glad to be included. He's never broken a curfew before, and has never been out this late with friends. It's a unexpectedly thrilling concept: these people are his friends? He walks beside Eric as they head out to the middle of the golf course, and takes Eric's hand when he stops to gaze up at the sky. Eric looks at Kyle, his eyes widening with naked surprise. He's sort of cute when he's not being a weirdo jackass. Maybe it's just the moonlight, or the late hour.

"I don't really want to play tag," Kyle says. The others have started up an impromptu game of it, laughing and chasing each other around the course. Only Henrietta is refraining, watching them with her arms crossed over her chest. Eric looks down at their hands. His palm is already starting to grow damp, but Kyle doesn't let go.

"Tag is gay," Eric says. He squeezes Kyle's hand, swallows audibly, and squeezes again. "Stupid, I mean. It's just running."

"Yeah. Fuck running." Kyle sits down in the grass, pulling Eric with him. They sit with their shoulders touching, still holding hands, and watch the others run around. Henrietta stretches out on her back nearby, and Clyde joins her when he can no longer keep up with the others. Kyle can hear parts of their muttered conversation, but he's not really paying attention. He feels exceptionally calm, far away from the stress of the past few days and content to wait for Eric to decide what to do next. Eric is nervous; Kyle can feel it in the air like an electric charge. Kyle likes this, his surprising ability to make a sixteen-year-old boy nervous, even if it's this boy, a mountainous mess with sweaty hands.

"Oh, Jesus," Eric mutters when Butters drops into the grass and Tammy and Bebe sort of tackle him, all of them laughing. "An orgy is breaking out over there."

"Good for Butters. I doubt he gets much action back home." Kyle wonders if he should have said that, considering the 'action' Eric might be getting at home. "Um, you – does that guy still bother you?"

"What guy?"

"The blow job guy."

Eric looks over at him, and Kyle tries to make his expression as accepting as possible without also inviting Eric to spill his guts here and now. It's probably too dark to communicate all this with a look, so he lifts Eric's hand and kisses his knuckles.

"I set that guy's car on fire," Eric says. "The fucker never showed his face after that."

"Good," Kyle says. He pulls Eric's arm around him. It's cold out, and Kyle is wearing only his pajama pants, Mackey t-shirt and flip flops. Eric seems stunned for a few seconds, but then he hugs Kyle against him, rubbing his arm to warm him up. "Are you sniffing my hair?" Kyle asks.

"No," Eric says, and he scoffs, though he totally was. Kyle laughs when he sees Butters getting kissed by both Bebe and Tammy, who are sort of passing him back and forth, giggling. Butters seems to be enjoying it, dazed and grinning.

"What a stud," Kyle says.

"Please. Those bitches are using him like a sex toy, look at them."

"No, it's cute."

"Cute? It's nasty. If those two start lezzing out I'm leaving. They practically are, I mean – Butters is basically a chick."

"He is not," Kyle says, though he sort of knows what Eric means. They look at each other, and Kyle braces himself to be kissed, not sure if he wants it or not. Eric is breathing hard, increasingly warm. In the distance, a coyote howls, and three more answer from someplace near the golf course, close but out of sight. Kyle goes stiff and looks to the others. They've all frozen, too.

"Oh, good," Henrietta says. "Is this the part of the bullshit horror movie cliché field trip where we get eaten by wild dogs?"

"Fuck that," Eric says, standing. He pulls Kyle up with him and keeps hold of his hand. Butters and the girls are running toward them, shrieking with laughter, as if they're playing tag with the pack of coyotes now.

They walk the girls back to their cabin and whisper goodnight at the door. Butters gets kissed by Tammy and Bebe again, this time on his cheeks. He's giddy on the way back to their cabin, practically skipping.

"That was the best night ever!" he proclaims as they walk back into their cabin.

"A successful mission," Eric says.

"Are you guys holding hands?" Clyde asks, pausing in the middle of the room to stare at them. Kyle lets go and shrugs.

"Mind your own business, shit bag," Eric says. He climbs into bed and smirks at Kyle. "You see what I did there? Eh? Shit bag, because he—"

"Yeah, I get it." Kyle winces and climbs into bed. "Everybody just – shut up and go to to sleep."

Miraculously, this works, and soon Kyle is the only one awake, lying in the dark and smiling up at the ceiling like an idiot. He still feels a little queasy, as if he can't quite find his mental footing, but there's a kind of Disney-musical feeling buzzing in the pit of his stomach, and he remembers Bebe saying that Stan was patrolling near the pool. Kyle imagines running out there, finding Stan and jumping into his arms, kissing him on the mouth. At the moment he feels like he could actually do it, like he could do anything.

He falls asleep knowing this is not actually true, too afraid to try to find Stan anyway, because he might be intoxicated and fresh from Craig's bed, smelling of grownup sex. Still, Kyle feels empowered by the events of the evening. Things are finally happening to him, for real. The possibilities, if not endless, are at least more plentiful that he ever dared to hope before this summer.


	5. Chapter 5

On the morning of the hike with Stan, Kyle gets up early so he can slip into the bathroom before the others and try to do something with his hair. He should have let his mother trim it before he left for camp. When she'd offered he only grumbled a vague refusal, too humiliated by the fact that he would soon be shipped off to fat camp to endure the more regular humiliation of having his mother cut his hair for him. She's the only person in South Park who knows how to do so without ruining it. His trips to what passes for 'salons' there have all been complete disasters, and his mother refuses to drive him to Denver to get his hair cut when she can do it herself for free.

Kyle stands in front of the bathroom mirror feeling awkward, and suddenly very gay. It's not just that he's reflecting on his traumatic hair experiences and worrying about looking good for Stan during the hike. He held a boy's hand last night, for real. People saw. He's always thought of himself as a kind of subtle, possibly even butch gay kid. The fact that he's fat seemed to support this, because he tends to assume that gay guys - real gay guys - are vain about their appearance. But he is a real gay guy, or nearly one, and he's a little afraid to face another day where this is true, though he's also fidgety with excitement and eager to find out what will happen next.

After he's made himself as presentable as possible he returns to the dark room where the other boys are still sleeping. He's dressing for the hike when he hears Eric grunt, his mattress squeaking as he rolls over. 

"Where are you sneaking off to?" Eric asks.

"Nowhere." Kyle doesn't appreciate the accusatory tone, or the implication that it would be Eric's business if he was going someplace. He wants to continue poking at the thing between him and Eric to see what might spring out of it, but not if he can't do so on his own terms. "I just woke up early."

"Oh, shit, we have that fucking hike today, don't we?"

"It'll be good. I mean--" Kyle turns to look at Eric. He's sitting up in bed, hugging his elbows, his hair flattened on one side. "It's better than running," Kyle says. 

"Yeah, right." Eric throws his blankets away, and Kyle's eyes go directly to Eric's crotch. He's got morning wood, his boxers tented over it. Kyle is happy to see that his erect bulge is neither too huge nor too small, and he flicks his eyes back up to Eric's face when he catches himself thinking this. Eric is grinning, looking very pleased. "Shall I present it?" he asks, lowering his voice. "For further inspection? In the bathroom, perhaps?"

"God -- no! Wendy will be here any minute with her stupid lantern." Actually, he's expecting Stan to walk through the door, since he's leading the hike. The last thing Kyle wants is for Stan to find him groping Eric's cock in the bathroom, though he supposes that would make them even. "Cool it," he says when Eric goes on grinning at him, the pup tent in his boxers still on display.

"Cool it? Really? Who says that?" 

"My mom," Kyle says miserably, realizing he sounds like her. "Just -- go beat off or something, get that thing out of here."

"Ooh-hoo, yeah, I'm gonna beat off alright. Do I have permission to think of you?"

"Like you really think you need it."

"You're right, I don't." Eric seems to falter then, lingering in bed like he doesn't want to waddle to the bathroom in view of Kyle, his dick leading the way. Kyle busies himself with lacing his sneakers and tries not to listen too closely to the sounds from within the bathroom, though he's curious. It sounds like Eric just pees, flushes, and returns to the room without washing his hands or beating off, unless he was so close that it only took one squeeze.

Kyle was right: it's Stan who comes to the door twenty minutes later, just as dawn is beginning to break. He speaks quietly and allows Clyde to take his time with getting dressed. Kyle doesn't know what to do with himself, suddenly in the presence of both Stan and Eric, and in such close quarters. He hovers near the window, pretending to study the map of the hills that Stan passed to him. 

"Wendy's getting your packs ready," Stan says. "We're gonna do breakfast in Coyote Canyon before we hike back." 

"In the sense that we're going to be breakfast for coyotes?" Eric says. 

"Nah, they sleep during the day, and anyway they'd be scared off by ten people headed in their direction, making a ruckus." 

"A ruckus," Eric says, muttering. Kyle refuses to look at him, aware that he's attempting to make fun of Stan.

"So it's kind of a long hike?" Kyle says, nervous about his ability to endure this without turning into a sweaty, puffy, sunburned thing. 

"It's about two hours total," Stan says.

"Two hours!" Clyde looks up from his sneakers, which he'd been lethargically lacing, and gapes incredulously at Stan, then at Kyle, perhaps only because Kyle is standing beside him with the map. 

"So basically it's a death march," Eric says. "Cool, that's great."

"It's a slow hike." Stan looks at Kyle uncertainly. "We'll take breaks to look at wildflowers and stuff. I, uh, brought a flora and fauna guide." He sets down his pack and digs it out. Butters skips forward to take it from him when no one else budges.

"Oh boy," Butters says, opening the book. "Look at all the different kinds of lizards!" 

"I don't like lizards," Clyde says.

"You don't like anything," Kyle says. "I like lizards," he says, speaking to Stan. 

"They're cute," Stan says. Eric scoffs in judgment and Kyle ignores him. He doesn't want to be cruel, but he won't participate in making fun of Stan or this hike. It's going to be great, maybe.

They walk across the path to pick up the girls, who are all dressed for the hike. Henrietta is wearing full makeup and carrying her black umbrella. Wendy is with them, and she hands each of the boys a pine green Mackey-logo backpack. 

"Are you guys excited?" she asks, and her voice seems too loud against the backdrop of the quiet desert morning. "This is about more than exercise," she says before even Butters can respond affirmatively. "Stan shares my view that spiritual wellness can manifest as physical health, and especially when we live in humble awe of our natural world. That's what this hike he's designed for you guys is all about. Right?" she prompts, looking to Stan, who is standing among the boys as if he's one of the campers. 

"Yep, right," he says. "That's -- hey, but we have to do Kyle's medicine first, so?"

"Of course," Wendy says, waving him off. "You two go on. I'm going to give everyone the safety basics overview at the trail head -- fill Kyle in and meet us there?"

"You got it." Stan touches Kyle's shoulder and he practically leaps away from the group to escape the secondhand embarrassment that he felt during Wendy's speech about humble awe. They walk in silence for a while, gritty sand crunching under their sneakers on the trail. Kyle partly wants to tell Stan about his adventure on the golf course last night, but he supposes it would seem very lame compared to Stan's trysts with Craig.

"Does Wendy always talk like that?" Kyle asks.

"No. Just when she's trying to sound teacher-y. She took leadership courses over the summer, when were growing up. It was this camp thing."

"You didn't go with her?"

"God, no, no way. I needed my summers to myself. Not that, uh, not that going to camp isn't awesome, though, too. For you guys."

"Having summer to myself is so depressing," Kyle says, feeling confessional. He wouldn't mind doing the hike with just Stan, talking like this the whole time. "I mean, I bet you did stuff with friends, and went to the pool, and drove to the ocean and all that. I mostly sit in my room and play video games, same as during the school year." 

"Well, maybe that'll change. I think you're going to like this hike. Though part of the safety stuff I'm supposed to be telling you is that you should never hike alone."

"So much for that then."

"You don't think you could make friends at home?"

"I mean, I could." Kyle groans at the thought of the boys who would be willing to spend time with him: the absolute dregs of his hick town's nerd society. "But not the kind of friends I want. Not like you," he adds, mumbling this.

"You mean a gay friend?" Stan asks, and Kyle laughs.

"That's not what I meant. But yeah! I mean, that would be awesome." Again he considers mentioning Eric and their shared gayness, but if he does confide in Stan it probably shouldn't be right before the hike, when Eric will likely be rude to Stan. "I just want a friend who isn't trying to be cool all the time," Kyle says. "Someone who just is cool, like you, or not cool at all, like me, but just not fake, either way." 

"Hey, listen." Stan stops walking and takes Kyle by the shoulders. "I want you to know - and I'm surprised you haven't figured this out, but - I'm not cool at all." He breaks into a grin after a couple of seconds of allowing Kyle to stare back at him very seriously. Kyle snorts and steps out of his grip, trying not to smile too widely. 

"You've got friends," Kyle says. "And a tan. You're cool, sorry." 

"I feel like it doesn't do me any good, I guess," Stan says. "Whatever, uh, positive qualities I have? It's like they were designed to make someone else feel proud, not me. Shit, never mind - let's hurry up. Race you there?"

"Fuck you!" Kyle says, laughing, because that's so unfair, but he bolts for the nurse's station when Stan does, and they're both laughing by the time they get there. Kyle appreciates that Stan doesn't let him win or even slow down much. Stan couldn't be fake if he tried. Kyle thinks of Eric and his many defensive fronts, but there's something so raw about him, despite all that. He's real in his own way, the kind of obnoxious but close friend Kyle could have back in the real world, if they lived in the same town. Or maybe they would be boyfriends, in secret, in basements and backseats. The thought is still alarming, even in the context of camp. Kyle enjoys being adored, but a boyfriend has certain responsibilities, such as not being infatuated with someone else.

"I kinda feel like I'm gonna puke," Stan says while Kyle does his injection. 

"Why?" Kyle looks up, searching Stan's face. He doesn't seem hungover today. "Is it my stomach fat?" he asks, only half-joking, still holding his roll of flub while the insulin absorbs into it.

"No! My gut's just all twisty. Wendy wants me to lead the hike. She'll probably take over. Maybe I should let her."

"No, you should lead." Kyle pulls down his shirt and hands Stan the supplies, meeting his eyes to show him that he's serious. "You're better at this than her, really. She tries too hard. It's alienating." 

"Huh. Never thought of it that way." Stan smiles a little and nods. "Yeah, thanks. I'll give it a shot." 

"Just don't let the comments from the peanut gallery get to you. They whine a lot. Especially the boys."

They return to the others, Kyle already wondering if he'll be teased for re-applying his sunscreen when they stop for breakfast. The sun isn't up fully yet, but the pale purple glow around the hills has given way to creeping light, and the heat is picking up already. Kyle hangs back when Stan takes the lead at the start of the trail, keeping a respectful distance now that Stan is leading everyone around, not just him. 

"Keep your eyes on the brush as we head toward the hills," Stan says. "You'll see lizards scampering, and look - there's a jackrabbit up ahead. Lots of those guys out at this hour!"

"Do they eat the lizards?" Tammy asks. 

"Nah, they're herbivores. Jackrabbits eat grass and flowers, sometimes even twigs. We won't see many wildflowers until we get to the hills. They're really pretty, but please don't pick them - the jackrabbits and other critters need them to survive." 

"Is this bitch for real?" Eric mutters, suddenly at Kyle's side. 

"Yes," Kyle says. He jabs Eric with his elbow. "Don't be so negative."

"Oh, sorry. I forgot, I'm supposed to be in spiritual awe of some bushes and sand."

"Dude, I know, it's dorky, but at least we're not at home alone in our basements for once, you know?"

"I'd rather have you in my basement than go marching through the desert," Eric says. "If you know what I'm saying."

"Stop asking if I know what you're saying! I always know what you're saying, because it's always the same thing, and it's always involving your dick." 

"So? I have needs, Kyle. I'm a man. When you're sixteen maybe you'll understand." 

"Ugh," Kyle says, trying not to laugh and not even sure if Eric is attempting to be funny. "Be quiet. Look at the lizards." 

"Lizards," Eric says, and he scoffs.

"If you're a good sport," Kyle says, lowering his voice, not at all sure he should say this, "I'll be nice to you later. If you know what I'm saying." 

They exchange a look, and some of Kyle's doubt evaporates when he sees Eric's eyes widen. He seems so consistently taken off guard by every bone Kyle throws him that Kyle can't manage to be very scared about what making these promises might mean.

The rocky hills around the camp slope gently, but Kyle is quickly winded as they begin their ascent, and Eric is worse off, sweating profusely at his side. Kyle tries to pay attention to Stan's remarks about wildflowers and animal life as the hike goes on, but he doesn't really care about the details, just finds Stan's interest in the subject charmingly sweet. He zones out instead, overheated and wondering how he might show Eric his appreciation later, in the shade of their cabin. He might not have to do anything more than lie back and let Eric suck his dick, but somehow even that seems like something above his skill level. He tries to pay attention to his surroundings in an appropriately awestruck way, but it's mostly just rocks and sand, and the patches of wildflowers are cute, but Kyle had expected swaths of them covering the hills in a blanket of rainbow colors. The ones they pass are mostly white and yellow, sort of weed-like. 

Kyle is very relieved when they reach Coyote Canyon and sit down to eat breakfast, both because his legs are aching and because the part of the canyon where they've stopped is shaded by the rocky wall behind them. He sits beside Eric on a long, flat rock shelf and gulps from the second water bottle that was packed into his bag. He finished the first one on the way up. 

"You guys are doing awesome," Stan says while they dig through their bags for their breakfast. "We've already gone two miles."

"So that means two more miles on the way out?" Clyde says miserably. For all his complaining, he doesn't seem to be faring too badly: his cheeks are pink and he's moist-looking, but not drenched like Eric or breathless like Kyle. 

"That's right," Wendy says, stepping in when Stan hesitates. "And the great thing about this hike is that the remaining two miles are on a down slope! You guys have already done the hard part. So enjoy your breakfast and your sense of accomplishment. I find that always makes food taste more delicious." She takes a seat on a smooth boulder after saying so and pats it when Stan looks at her. Kyle is jealous when he sits beside her, close, and the two begin talking quietly together. 

"Goddamn granola," Eric says. He tears open the package from his pack with a grunt and drinks half of it down, a few bits falling from the corner of his mouth and landing on the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I need real food." 

"There's dried fruit," Kyle says, pawing through his own breakfast bag. "Juice, and -- eugh, a wheat bagel. Oh, shit. And a fucking banana." 

"Worst breakfast ever," Eric says. "They'd better feed us something resembling actual sustenance for lunch."

"Do you want this?" Kyle asks glumly, poking Eric's shoulder with the banana. 

"I guess," Eric says. "You don't like them?" He smiles, and Kyle rolls his eyes, knowing what he'll say next. "I was under the impression that you were fond of bananas."

"No, you must be thinking of cocks," Kyle says. Eric doesn't seem to know how to respond to that other than to gape at Kyle in a quasi-impressed way, which was Kyle's intention. He notices Rebecca looking at them and shrugs when he realizes she's overheard his comment about preferring cocks to bananas. "You should have come out with us last night," he says when she moves to sit closer to them.

"I have a very precise sleep schedule," she says. "It's important to me." 

"Well, we had fun," Kyle says, though it was more like they just kind of sat around until coyotes scared them off. He's not sure what was fun about it, exactly: the hand-holding? The element of danger? Whatever it was, he'd felt like an actual teenager for once, and not just a kid who hides from them when he can.

"Were you able to find some condoms?" Rebecca asks, and Kyle boggles at her. He holds his finger to his lips and turns to look at Stan and Wendy, but they're preoccupied with their own quiet conversation.

"Whoa, what?" Eric says, leaning across Kyle to look at her. "He's looking for condoms? You're looking for condoms?" He turns to Kyle as he says this, their faces uncomfortably close.

"Shhh!" Kyle says, leaning away. "Both of you, god! Keep it down!" 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Rebecca says. "I presumed that Eric knew you wanted some, since you two seem to be an item now." 

"That's right," Eric says, before Kyle can protest. "We're hooking up. Condoms and everything. Yep." He seems to be growing nervous with excitement, and Kyle leans further away from the humidity of his too-close body heat. 

"How do you even--" Kyle says, stammering. "How did you, uh -- why do you think that?"

"Bebe and Tammy were all a-twitter. They said you were doing things." Rebecca sighs and looks up at the sky, which is powder blue now, cloudless and bright. "Everyone's having sex but me," she says. "Just like at home."

"Maybe you can fuck that cafeteria guy," Eric says while Kyle struggles to come up with something reassuring to tell her. "I think he might be a chubby chaser. He's always making eyes at Kyle."

"He is not!" Kyle shudders, thinking of weird Kenny, and he has an idea. If that guy is willing to serve up extra bacon and pizza slices to him for whatever reason, he might be willing to get condoms for Kyle without going through the nurse's station and alerting Stan. Kyle isn't sure why he doesn't want Stan to know about his condom quest; it's embarrassing, mostly, that he's seeking them out with the intention of doing things with Eric. Maybe, possibly. He reminds himself that he can still back out at any time, no matter how well behaved Eric is for the remainder of the hike, and takes a big bite of his dry, cardboard-flavored wheat bagel. 

After breakfast they hike back down toward the valley, and Kyle is eager to get there and out of the sun. The heat has intensified and he's tired, his stomach sloshing uncomfortably from all the water he gulped during the first part of the hike and after eating. Eric sticks close by and stays quiet, and just as they're coming to the rocky passageway between the trail and the valley, he takes Kyle's arm and tugs a little. 

"What?" Kyle says, not wanting to fall behind. Eric has stopped walking. He smirks and shows Kyle something he was hiding behind his back: a purple wildflower. 

"For you," he says, thrusting it at Kyle and still smirking like this is a joke. "I guess some jackrabbit will have to go without his lunch, boo hoo."

"Oh, um. Thanks." Kyle takes the flower, not sure what he's supposed to do with it. For one giddy second he thinks of tucking it behind his ear, but that would be ridiculous. "You shouldn't pick them, though," he says, turning to catch up with the others. Eric has been lagging behind since after the meal, and Kyle has remained companionably close to him, which means he's as far as possible from Stan. Eric grunts and hurries to Kyle's side again. 

"I'll pick whatever flowers I want," he says. "This is a free country." 

"Not necessarily, when it comes to local plant life. Some species are protected."

"You sound like that Rebecca chick. And that thing isn't protected, Jesus. Those jack ass rabbits can eat something else. That one's yours."

"Um, okay." Kyle puts the flower into the pocket of his shorts, feeling guilty for crushing it, and for being glad that Eric picked it for him.

"So you're looking for condoms, I hear," Eric says.

"Don't ruin the moment." 

"Goddammit. You're a tease." 

"No, I'm not! Shh. That's strike two." 

"Yeah? What happens after strike three?" 

"Nothing, that's what. If you get what I'm saying." 

"I'm dying here!" Eric says, announcing this a little too loudly and throwing his head back to look up at the sky. "What do you want from me?" he says, more quietly. "I gave you a flower." 

"You can't buy me in wildflowers, Eric," Kyle says, enjoying this. "And you can't put these kinds of things on schedule."

"What kind of things?" 

"You know - things! Private things. Shh, just stop talking."

At the end of the trail, Kenny is waiting with a cooler full of cold water bottles. Kyle gulps from his, feeling exhausted but also accomplished. He's hiked, now: he's a hiker. Like Stan, who is smiling around at the group as if he's pleased by how well that went, though they didn't see any big horn sheep. 

"Let's head back to the cabins for showers," Wendy says. "Then you guys can rest up before lunch. No nutrition class today -- we'll serve you lunch in the cafeteria." 

"Thank Christ," Eric says. "And it had better be a real lunch." 

"All of your meals here are 'real,'" Wendy says. "Especially compared to junk food that's designed to taste good and provide little nutritional value--"

"Okay," Stan says, laying a hand on Wendy's shoulder. "He knows." 

Wendy gives Stan a look but leaves it at that. Kyle is proud of him. 

"Relax, my friends," Kenny says. "I'm doing honey mustard chicken and zucchini fries. Most delicious." 

There's some grumbling amongst the group at the idea of zucchini fries, but to Kyle that meal sounds weirdly perfect. He hurries back to the cabin with the others and claims the first shower, since he'll have to do another injection before their meal. When he's undressing in the bathroom he carefully removes the wilted wildflower from the pocket of his shorts. He hides it inside his toothbrush case before stepping into the shower.

There's some downtime in the cabin that Kyle mostly uses to lie flopped on his bed, offering the occasional rebuttal when Clyde says something stupid. Before lunch he reapplies sunscreen and walks to the nurse's station alone, excited to see Stan and to tell him how well he did as the hiking leader, but the nurse is the only person there to receive him. 

"Where's Stan?" Kyle asks, frozen in the middle of the examining room while she gets his supplies. 

"On break or on shift, I don't know." She approaches with Kyle's insulin, preparing the syringe as if she's going to administer it herself. He's relieved when she hands it over to him. 

"Is he not overseeing my shots anymore?" Kyle asks, feeling abandoned. The nurse shrugs. 

"I'm certainly not free to do this four times a day," she says. "They'll get him or one of the other kids to supervise you. All done? Okay, hand it over."

Kyle leaves the nurse's station feeling dazed. Normally the other kids are nearly done with their meal by the time he reaches the cafeteria, but today he arrives just as the others are picking up their trays and filing up to accept their honey mustard chicken and zucchini fries from Kenny. 

"That was fast," Eric says, immediately taking a place in line beside Kyle. "Did the hippie have a jackrabbit to breastfeed after you?"

"What -- no." Kyle barely hears that, jarred by how rejected he feels. It's stupid; Stan is probably just working elsewhere on the property at the moment. Doing laundry, perhaps. Kyle thinks of sneaking down the hall to the laundry room, a warmth of uncomfortable arousal flooding his dick as he imagines Stan fucking Craig triumphantly, his confidence boosted by that hike, and by Kyle.

"Are you sure you took your diabetes juice?" Eric snaps when Kyle is quiet during the meal, half-listening as Rebecca calmly attempts to convince Clyde that global warming is not a myth. "You're, like, out of it," Eric says, eying Kyle suspiciously when he turns to look at him. 

"Just worn out from the hike," Kyle says. "I hope the evening workout is easy." He hopes Stan will lead it, though he doubts that will be the case. 

The chicken is good and the zucchini fries are mushy but decent. Kyle lingers over his meal as the others begin to return their trays and head for the game room for free hour. They'll have group therapy later, then evening workout, then dinner. Kyle keeps the corner of his eye on Kenny, who is hosing off trays behind the counter. 

"Ready to go back to the cabin?" Eric asks, elbowing Kyle gently. "Butters and Clyde are in the game room." 

"I have to run an errand first," Kyle says. "You go -- I'll be there as soon as a I can." 

"What errand?"

"Nothing -- you'll see. It's a surprise, for you."

"Bullshit."

"Why bullshit? Just trust me. You'll like it."

Kyle is actually pretty sure that Eric won't, but he doesn't need to know that yet. He returns his tray and waves to Eric, who is still sitting at the lunch table, looking dejected. Kyle supposes he could enlist Eric's help on this adventure, but he's loud and conspicuous, and sneaking around is required. Kyle slips out of the building and keeps to the shadows out front. It's so hot outside that no one is out, and there's no wind, nothing moving, not even the lizards. Finally, Kyle hears it: the door around the side of the building opening. There are footsteps, and soon Kenny is walking toward the main path, drinking from a carton of orange juice. Something about the thought of drinking orange juice in heat like this makes Kyle feel briefly queasy, and he waits in place until he sees the direction Kenny is headed in. Not the employee parking lot, where Kyle expected to be able to cut him off before he climbed in his car and left the camp until his next shift. Instead, Kenny is heading toward the golf course. Maybe Mackey uses him as a landscaper, too, or maybe he's going to hit some balls during his break. Kyle follows as close as he can without being detected, checking behind him periodically to make sure Eric isn't trailing him.

There's a building at the front of the golf course that used to be the spa restaurant and bar, according to Stan. It's no longer used, most of the windows boarded up, and Kyle watches in confusion as Kenny looks around as if he's the one sneaking about and enters through the unlocked front door. Kyle is across the path, crouched in the shadow of a sizable cactus. He thinks of just giving up and going back to the cabin after all, but Kenny has been permissive so far, and Kyle really wants those condoms. The idea of having a barrier between him and Eric during whatever they're going to do makes the whole thing less scary.

He sneaks up to the front door of the old restaurant and peers into the cloudy windows beside it, keeping low. The windows haven't been washed in a long time and the visibility isn't good, but he can see Kenny's silhouette moving around inside, and he hears the crack of a soda or beer can opening. Kyle wonders if he should knock, then decides that would be stupid. He tries the door knob. It turns, still unlocked.

"Hello?" Kyle calls. It's dusty and very warm in what used to be the restaurant's lobby. The decor is retro, with wood paneling and large white globes that look like they were once lamps. The restaurant itself is sprawling, and the floor to ceiling windows along the back wall look out on the golf course. There's a dark bar with mirrored shelves in the center of what was once the dining room, and Kyle shouts in surprise when Kenny stands up from behind it.

"Oh, it's you, red!" Kenny grins and wipes his brow. "What's up? Welcome to my humble abode." 

"You live here?" Kyle walks inside, only taking a few steps and leaving the door open behind him. He smells corn chips and the spicy musk of spray deodorant. "Seriously?"

"For now," Kenny says. He nods and looks around, putting his hands on his narrow hips. "Yeah, they think I commute from outside the valley, but gas is way too expensive, and living with my parents sucks. So I set up camp here. Don't tell anyone, alright?"

"Alright," Kyle says, slowly. "Can't you just room with Stan or something?"

"Nah, I don't get lodging as part of the job like the college kids do. I'm just part time. You want a soda?"

"I can't have soda."

"Oh, right, you're diabetic. Sorry, dude."

"That's not why! I'm on a very strict diet, as you know. Craig would smell it on my breath and nail me to the wall."

"Damn, you're probably right. How about some orange juice? I've been sneaking it from the dining hall."

"Aren't you worried you're gonna get caught and lose your job?"

"Not as worried as I am about getting scurvy, my man."

"Scurvy?" Kyle closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head. "You know what, never mind, whatever. I don't care if you live here, that's great, I won't tell anyone. I just wanted to ask you a favor."

"Right on. You want to come through to the back patio? It's too hot to hang out in here during the day."

Kyle follows Kenny through the dining room of the old restaurant, where the chairs and tables have been cleared and stacked against the right wall. Kenny pushes open one of the sliding glass doors that look out on the golf course, and the pristine grass on the rolling hills of the course are a stark contrast to the musty interior of the boarded-up restaurant. Kyle stands at the edge of the patio that runs the length of the restaurant's back wall, bracing himself for the conversation he's about to have with a virtual stranger. He takes a few deep breaths of clean desert air while Kenny sits in a rattan chair with torn cushions and sips from the beer he carried out with him.

"What can I do for you, little man?" he asks. 

"Don't call me that," Kyle says. It's a nickname that doesn't exactly set the mood for the request he's about to make. "I'm not little." Kyle looks down at his stomach, which seems slightly less bloated but is still bubbling over the waistband of his track pants. "I'm sixteen," he says, because Kenny probably won't fact check this and find out that he's actually fifteen. "And what I need from you is some condoms."

"Ohh," Kenny says, drawing the word out as if he should have known. "Right, I get ya. Sure, it's summer camp. These things happen. I think you can get them from the nurse's station?"

"That would require going through the nurse," Kyle says. "Or Stan," he says, more quietly. "You, um. You guys are friends?"

"Yeah, Stan's awesome! He's an old soul." 

"Sure." Kyle can see that, actually, and he's annoyed that Kenny can, too. "Well, like. I don't want him to know. So don't tell him I came to ask for condoms." 

"If you say so, but Stan's no nark, and he's chill as hell when it comes to sex." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kyle asks, practically shouting. Kenny leans away from him slightly, eyes widening.

"Uh, nothing, dude, just that he's not judgmental about. Things."

"You know about him?" Kyle says, cautiously. 

"He's a bisexual stallion," Kenny says, nodding, and Kyle sputters, not quite managing to laugh. "What? He is!"

"Whatever you say." Kyle is thrown by the implication that Stan likes girls, too. Maybe he only gave Kenny that impression to seem cooler. Is it cool to be bisexual? Kyle doesn't even know. "He wasn't there today," Kyle says. "Stan. At the nurse's station, I mean. He usually gives me my injections -- or oversees them, anyway." 

"I think he's off with Craig," Kenny says. "Since there was no Nutrition class today. That means an extra shift for me, the lunch shift. Normally I'm napping right now." 

"Craig -- he's with Craig?" Kyle had half expected that, had even allowed himself to vaguely fantasize about it, but it still hurts to hear that Stan ditched him for that asshole. "They're -- where?"

"Beats me. I told Stan that guy's a real uptight dildo, and he says he knows it's true, but the heart wants what it wants. Speaking of that - who've you got your eye on? Tammy? She's a cool chick." 

"No, just -- never mind!" Kyle wants to pummel Kenny for what he said about Stan's heart, as if he know anything about it. "Can I borrow some condoms or not?"

"Borrow?" Kenny says, and he grins. "Nah, but you can have a whole strip. I won't ask for them back after you're done with them." 

"You know what I meant." 

"You're a real spitfire, red. C'mon, let's get you some condoms. The counselors are probably looking for you. All I got is Magnums, that okay?"

"Sure," Kyle says, though he has no idea what wearing a Magnum entails. He knows they're supposed to be for big cocks, and just touching the foil wrappers feels illicit and exciting when Kenny passes them to him.

"You need tips or anything?" Kenny asks.

"Tips?" Kyle narrows his eyes, then tries to look less disgusted and annoyed with this man who just did him a favor. "No. I know what I'm doing." The lie feels pathetic, but Kenny just nods as if he believes it.

"Hey, I hear ya. I lost mine when I was fourteen. Sex is a beautiful thing. Just make sure you treat her right afterward. You got the whole summer ahead of you, and you don't want a pissed off chick in group therapy with you, believe me."

"Yeah." Kyle looks down at the strip of shiny gold condoms and tries to imagine what camp would be like if Eric was hurt and defensive, out to get him. He doesn't want to hurt Eric, anyway, but what if he does it without meaning to? It's absurd, considering Eric's size and complete insensitivity toward others, but Kyle is worried that Eric is also as fragile as that wildflower that he tucked into his toothbrush case, half-wilted and in danger of being crushed.

It's not very hot, thinking of his potential gay lover this way, and on the walk to the cabin Kyle tries to alter his mood. He's about to have his dick sucked, maybe, and he's considering touching Eric's, but only if he wears a condom. Is it rude to offer a hand job but also insist on a condom? Kyle does need tips, but not from weirdo squatter Kenny. He wishes Stan was in the nurse's station and not off with Craig having sex, or maybe they're having some queermo romantic health food picnic at the palm oasis. There's no telling what two grown gay men might do together. Kyle has his own secret gay life to attend to and forces himself to stop thinking about Stan's. He comes to the front door of the cabin and pats his pocket, feeling the shape of the strip of Magnums inside. Be brave, he thinks. Like Stan. No, not like Stan -- like Craig. Cool and slightly detached. Commanding. Yes, that's how he'll do this. He opens the door.

Eric is inside, as he expected, sitting on his bed with his back to Kyle and crinkling something. He turns when Kyle enters, looking slightly feral. He's got something on his mouth.

"Chocolate?" Kyle says when he sees the candy bar in Eric's hand. Eric grunts and takes another bite of the thing. "What the hell are you doing? Eric! Stop! You'll get thrown out." 

"Why, you gonna tell on me?" 

"No, but. I thought they confiscated your candy bars? Or someone stole them, or something?" 

"That was a ruse designed to throw you off their trail. So you wouldn't try to steal them. I've re-hidden them in various strategic locations." 

"What the fuck? Like I was really gonna steal your stupid candy!"

"Well, I didn't know you that well then, okay?" Eric stuffs the last of the candy bar in his mouth, and Kyle can hardly stand the sight of him like this: there's an air of ashamed desperation about him, and that chocolate smudge is still at the corner of his lips, making Kyle think of the fat boy in Willy Wonka's factory. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back," Eric says, still chewing.

"You've got to throw those things away. You're sabotaging yourself." 

"Yeah, okay, whatever. I need extra calories. You said so, even."

"Not those calories!" 

"Enough lecturing! What did you get for me on your little errand? It'd better be good. I've been waiting here forever."

"Forever." Kyle scoffs. "I think it was a relatively short amount of time, considering how expertly I acquired my contraband." 

He pulls the condoms out of his back pocket and tosses them on the bed. They land with a wettish splat, and Kyle looks up at Eric's face. He's boggling, and Kyle can't stand it anymore: he crosses the space between them and uses his thumb to wipe the chocolate from the corner of Eric's lips. It feels gross and doesn't really work, some of it smearing onto Eric's cheek.

"Condoms?" Eric says. 

"Yep. C'mere." Kyle takes Eric by his wrist and pulls him into the bathroom. He wets a washcloth and wipes Eric's mouth clean properly while Eric continues to gape at him. 

"How did you get those?" Eric finally asks. 

"I have my resources. You underestimate me." Kyle dabs at the corner of Eric's lips with the dry side of the washcloth, feeling impressive. Eric scoffs a few times. 

"We don't actually need condoms," he says. "I'm not, like, diseased. Are you?"

"Of course I'm not! But, well. It's just the thing to do, I'm sorry." 

"You want to wear a condom while I suck your dick? Really?"

"Really," Kyle says, though actually he's not sure. Something about that seems gross, though the idea of mouth to cock contact is still freaking him out, too. 

"I'm not sucking on a fucking piece of latex! That's disgusting! What -- what, you don't believe me? You think I'm hiding a bad case of herpes? Or AIDS? Is that what you think?"

"Hey, calm down." Kyle rests his hands on Eric's chest, which does seem to calm him, though he's still frowning and breathing a little heavily. "I don't think -- whatever. I'm just nervous. I thought we could start out with condoms." 

"Well, fine, that's great, and if you want to put a condom on my dick and then suck it, go to town. But I'm not sucking on a fucking piece of plastic. That makes the whole thing pointless!"

“I guess we're not doing anything then,” Kyle says, and he expects to feel some relief, because he was so nervous before, but it doesn't come. Anger floods him instead, mixing with the resentment that's been simmering since Kenny told him Stan skipped their usual appointment to be with Craig. It might not even be true, but it might as well be. He pushes around Eric and goes back into the bedroom, his vision beginning to blur at the edges. His hands are shaking when he grabs the condoms. 

“Do I look like some herpes infested slut?” Eric asks from the bathroom doorway, shouting now. “Huh? What the hell are you afraid of? I'm generous enough to offer—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kyle shouts, the rage boiling over and spilling out. He throws the condoms down and grabs his pillow, trying to rip the pillowcase in half. It's stronger than it looks, and he settles for tearing it off of the pillow, which is much more delicate and easy to shred. “Stop saying you're fucking generous!” Kyle says, and he flings the pillow away before he can destroy it completely, a few feathers floating in the air when he turns back to Eric. “All you do is push me, prod me, and annoy the shit out of me, and when I get condoms for us you throw a fucking tantrum? Seriously?” 

“I'm throwing a tantrum? You're the one going all Wolverine on a pillow!”

“If you don't want to use condoms you can come in your own hand, I don't give a fuck!” 

Kyle storms out the front door of the cabin, the rage still tunneling his vision. He jogs away from the cabin, not even sure where he's headed. He's burning with directionless anger, and part of him just wants to give in to it, to embrace the relief of destroying something, but the part that hates losing control won't let him go that far. By the time he reaches the pool he's so hot, inside and out, that he feels like his hair is on fire. There's nobody in the pool, and Kyle is glad, because once he throws himself into the water it might start to boil. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his shirt and socks, and jumps in feet first, still wearing his track pants. 

Underwater, Kyle closes his eyes and lets the relief seep into him. The water soothes over his blistering rage, putting out little fires as it goes, and the silence under the surface helps, too. Kyle has always been good at holding his breath, and he stays under for as long as he can, wanting to linger in this peaceful cocoon of cool quiet. When he surfaces the relief persists, and he takes deep breaths, blinking up at the bright afternoon sky. He counts backward from twenty before trying to reassess what set him off, which is a trick Mackey talked about in group. When the counting is done, he evaluates the issue as calmly as possible, treading water: Eric got mad about the condoms because he's an asshole, but it's more complicated than that. He wants Kyle to trust him, and probably still feels insecure about what he confessed about his mother's boyfriend. Kyle isn't willing to put his own health at risk to boost Eric's confidence, but there might be another way. He floats on his back and paddles around the pool for a while, allowing his calm to solidify. He's still annoyed about Stan not showing up to watch him take his medicine, but that's completely irrational and there's nothing he can do about it. Maybe he can do something, later, about the Eric issue. 

Kyle climbs out of the pool when he hears some of the younger kids coming up the walk with Token. He gathers his discarded clothes and slinks away, exiting through the boys' locker room. He's proud of himself, as if he's found a solution to his anger problems, though he knows he can't rely on a swimming pool to be available whenever he needs to come down from a rage. Maybe splashing cold water on his face would work. 

Back in the cabin, Eric is gone, and so are the condoms. Kyle puts on dry clothes, not bothering to shower since they'll have another work out before dinner. In the bathroom, he opens his toothbrush case and checks to make sure the little wildflower is still there. It is, and he feels a bit guilty closing it back into hiding. 

He doesn't see Eric again until the evening workout, which is yoga at dusk with Wendy. Kyle chooses the mat beside Eric's and isn't surprised when Eric avoids eye contact and doesn't speak to him. The yoga is better than last time; Kyle at least feels better at it, though his legs are still a bit wobbly and tired from the hike. Wendy seems to have chosen an easy routine, and Kyle appreciates it. On the walk back to the cabin Clyde and Butters are chattering about meeting up with the girls again later, and Kyle shrugs when they ask if he'll come, too. Eric is walking ahead of them with Rebecca, and Kyle wonders what they're talking about. 

When he goes for his pre-dinner dose of insulin he dreads finding the nurse waiting for him again, but it's Stan who's sitting in the exam room when he gets there. Stan grins and puts away the magazine he was paging through. 

“Where were you earlier?” Kyle asks, trying to at least partly conceal his hurt feelings, though it's probably obvious. 

“Oh, I had the afternoon off,” Stan says. Kyle wilts at the reminder that he's just part of Stan's job, and that Stan is probably relieved when he doesn't have to watch the diabetic kid medicate himself. He accepts his supplies when Stan fetches them and goes to the examining table. 

“I have a weird question,” Kyle says when he's done with the injection. 

“Yeah?”

“Um.” Kyle swallows and watches Stan put his supplies away. He's been thinking about this since the pool; he even meditated on it during yoga. He's still not sure it's the right thing to do, but he's too curious to stop himself, more about what Stan's reaction will be than anything. “You have access to our medical files in here, right?”

“They're over there in the nurse's office,” Stan says. “That's where I keep your records.” He picks up the little notebook that he always jots Kyle's readings and doses into. 

“So you've got access to our files?”

“Well, yeah. Why?”

“I need to know something. Everyone had to do blood work as part of their physical before camp, right?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, slowly. “What's going on?”

“Something like an STD would be noted in our files if we had one, right?”

“Kyle, what the hell? Are you worried you have one and nobody told you?”

“No! It's about another boy. A boy I'd like to, uh. Do stuff with. I just want to know if it's okay not to use condoms, because—”

“Whoa, dude, hang on.” Stan jots his notes into Kyle's data book and snaps it shut. He puts it on the side table near the refrigerated med cabinet and walks to the examining table. Kyle is having a hard time meeting Stan's eyes, and he can feel his face coloring. “Are you being serious?” Stan asks when Kyle finally looks at him.

“Yes.” 

“Well. Um, you're fifteen. That's kinda young. Really young.”

“It's not really young! Really young is like, twelve. How old were you when you were first with a girl?”

“I was about your age,” Stan says, mumbling this reluctantly. “But I regretted it. I didn't like it.”

“Yeah, because you're gay! I mean, you are gay, right? Not bisexual?”

“Jesus, Kyle, what is going on?” 

“Nothing! I just want to do sex things without worrying that my partner has some creepy disease, so—”

“It's that big kid, isn't it?” Stan's eyes harden, and Kyle's heart rate picks up. “Eric?”

“Maybe.” Kyle groans; he'll need to be specific if he actually wants Stan to check the file. “Yeah, it's him.” 

“Kyle – he. I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Well, I don't think letting Craig ram you over a laundry machine is a great idea, but that's none of my business, is it?” 

“No, but it is my business what you do in this camp! You're underage, and that kid is probably pressuring you—”

“He's not!” Kyle hops down off the table with a grunt and heads for the door. “God, forget it. I guess I'll just fool around with him without condoms and hope for the best.” 

This idiotic statement works the way Kyle hoped it would: Stan hurries to him and grabs his arm, pulling him back. He looks angry, but also concerned, and he's breathing a bit heavily. Kyle's heart does a sort of excited flutter thing, and his cock does something similar. Stan is standing close, looking down at him intently. He smells like aftershave; Kyle can see a little cut on his cheek where he nicked himself with his razor.

“Stop,” Stan says, softly. “Calm down. I'll look at that kid's file if that's what you want. But you haven't even known him for two weeks, and I think you're both too young, and it really doesn't seem like the right time to mess around with your roommate.” 

“Why, because we're doing fat camp together? What difference does it make? And who cares how long I've known him? I've known you less than two weeks, but you're the first person I came out to. I thought we were, like. Friends, sort of.” 

“We are.” Stan gives Kyle's arm a little squeeze. Kyle wants to grab him and hug him, but he restrains himself. “I like you, dude. That's why I'm concerned.” 

“Don't be concerned. I know what I'm doing.”

“Mhm. Go sit down. I'll get his file. But you can't tell anyone we looked at it, okay? Not even Eric.”

“Of course not. I won't. You can trust me.” 

Stan squeezes Kyle's arm again before sighing and going into the nurse's office. He flicks on the light and pages through the files in a cabinet against the wall. Kyle sits on the exam table again, feeling dazed and giddy. He really wasn't sure this would work, but he should have known. Stan wants to help him so earnestly, however he can, and it makes Kyle's heart ache in the best, worst way. 

“You know,” Stan says after studying the file for a few minutes. “I could tell you he has pubic lice or something, just to discourage you.”

“I bet you're a terrible liar,” Kyle says, grinning. 

“Why do you say that?”

“I don't know. You just seem honest. So he doesn't have anything, is that what you're saying?”

“Only thing listed under medical conditions is that he's high risk for developing Type 2 diabetes.” Stan sighs again and closes the file. “But really. Don't rush into anything. Your, uh. Your virginity is a precious gift.”

Kyle bursts into laughter, and it feels good, like the fluttering feeling that's been traveling between his heart and his dick is being released into the air.

“Do you seriously believe that?” he asks, still laughing. 

“Yes!” Stan says, looking so serious that Kyle laughs harder.

“Sorry,” he says, and he slides off the exam table when Stan goes back into the nurse's office to put Eric's file away. “It's just – I know what you mean, but I want to try stuff. You know?”

“Of course I know,” Stan says, keeping his back to Kyle at the filing cabinet. “But from where I'm standing fifteen seems way too young, even if I didn't think so when I was your age.” 

“Well. Thanks for looking that up for me. I feel better now.”

“Great.” Stan closes the filing cabinet and groans. “I feel like I need a drink.” 

“Oh, um. Sorry.” 

“It's not just you, it's – whatever, it's fine. I'll walk you to dinner.” 

They walk to the main building together in silence, but it's a comfortable quiet. Kyle looks up at the stars, remembering how he felt on the golf course, sitting so close to Eric and holding his hand. It was if he'd been imbued with a fleeting but important power, and he feels it now, too, with Stan. It's not the same, but it's similar. He feels valued, cared for, like someone whose virginity is an actual precious gift.

“Did you hang out with Craig today?” Kyle asks just before they reach the main building. Stan shakes his head.

“He was working.” 

“Oh. But you guys are still—?”

“I don't know what we're doing.” Stan stops walking and gives Kyle a worried look that makes him feel terribly guilty. “It's complicated. You'll see what I mean if you fool around with that kid.” 

“It's not the same,” Kyle says. He waves his hand dismissively, which makes him feel very gay, then surprisingly okay with that. 

“Don't forget I'm here for you,” Stan says. He opens the door to the main building, holding it for Kyle. “If you want to talk about anything.” 

“Sure.” Kyle considers confiding in Stan about whatever he's going to do with Eric, but the idea is unsettling, as if he'd betray both of them by doing so. He goes into the dining room, where the other kids have already tucked into their dinners. Stan takes a seat with Wendy and Token, and Kyle approaches Kenny warily at the counter. 

“My man,” Kenny says. “How'd it go?”

“It hasn't – gone, yet,” Kyle says, frowning. “And please don't ask me.” 

“Gotcha. Private stuff, sure, that's cool. You want extra salsa on your tacos?”

“No! Please, just give me whatever portion Craig approved.” 

“A man of principles,” Kenny says, nodding. “I respect that.” Kyle waits until he's turned his back on Kenny to roll his eyes. He goes to the table his group always occupies and takes his usual seat beside Eric, who at least deigns to look at him. 

“Are they really not going to weigh us until the end?” Bebe is saying, looking distressed. “I can't find a scale anywhere in this place.” 

“I think this experience is designed more as a lifestyle alteration than a competition based on who is dropping pounds the quickest,” Rebecca says. Kyle can't tell if she sounds bitter or not, but there is something slightly sharper than usual in her tone. 

“I feel lighter,” Tammy says. “Do ya'll?”

“Sure!” Butters says. “And real healthy. I'd be okay with living here for the rest of high school, truth be told.” 

“Jesus,” Clyde says. “If that's true, your home life must be miserable.”

“Well,” Butters says, and he pokes at some stray salsa with his fork. “That'd be a real ungrateful way to put it.” 

Kyle tunes them out and finishes his tacos quickly. When he's done, he cleans his hands with his napkin and touches Eric's thigh under the table. It's a light touch, but he can feel Eric tense up in surprise. They look at each other and Kyle smiles a little. 

“Don't,” Eric mutters under his breath, and Kyle takes his hand away, hurt. He turns to the counselor table. Only Token remains, playing with his phone. Stan and Wendy are gone. 

Back at the cabin, Kyle gets ready for bed and considers pitching the wildflower into the trash where Eric will see it, but he can't bring himself to discard the sweet little thing. He's glad when Butters and Clyde spring out of bed to get the door when the girls come knocking again. 

“You guys coming?” Butters whispers. Eric says nothing, slumped under his blankets. He's been faking sleep since lights out. Kyle sits up and shakes his head. 

“Too tired,” he says. “Have fun, and be careful.” 

“You too,” Clyde says, and Kyle hears Tammy snicker. He listens to the receding footsteps outside as Clyde and Butters sneak off with the girls. He looks over at Eric, surprised to see him sitting up in bed. 

“You're seriously mad at me for wanting to use condoms?” Kyle says. Eric shrugs. 

“Just seems dumb,” he says. “I'm not some disease-riddled whore just because I've had – experience. I fucking swear, okay?”

“I know. I mean, I believe you. At dinner, though. Why'd you get all pissed when I touched your leg?”

“I didn't get all pissed! I just didn't want a boner in the fucking dining hall, Jesus.” 

“You were getting a boner from that?”

Eric doesn't answer. Kyle throws his blankets off and leans back against the headboard, spreading his legs a little. Eric's eyes are darting from Kyle's face to his crotch and back again. Kyle's heart starts to pound, and he reaches down to run his fingertips over the insides of his thighs suggestively, his cock getting hard as Eric watches. Kyle is wearing boxers and his Mackey t-shirt, his nipples hardening underneath it.

“Still want to suck my cock?” Kyle asks, trying to sound seductive and not too shaky-voiced. He can hear Eric swallow heavily.

“Gonna wear a condom?”

“Nah,” Kyle says. “Seems like it would feel better without one. What'd you do with the condoms, anyway?”

“Hid them.” 

“From me?”

“No, from the fucking counselors! Are you going to tell me how you got them?”

“Maybe. Look, let's make a deal.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Eric groans and scrubs his hands over his face. “You're going to drive me out of my mind before I can put my fucking mouth on your dick. That's your plan, isn't it?”

“No. I just want to propose something.” 

“Fuck. Well, propose away.” 

“If you get rid of all your candy bars, I might return the favor.” 

“Might – what, suck my cock?”

“Maybe. But you have to throw away your stash, in the dumpster out behind the main building.” 

“Why do you care?” Eric asks, eyes narrowing. 

“I just do. I want you to, you know. Do your best. And lose some actual weight so that you don't crush me in bed.” 

“I can get in bed with you?” Eric says, pushing his blankets away. He's hard, too. It's obvious even through his baggy sweatpants.

“I just asked you to suck my dick,” Kyle says, deadpan. “So, yeah. You'd better come get in my bed.” 

Eric scoots to the edge of his mattress and stands unsteadily, rubbing his hands on his sweatpants as if to dry sweaty palms. Kyle keeps his eyes locked on Eric's as he comes to the bed. He can feel Eric trembling when he sits, and still can't believe anyone wants him this much. In the moonlight through the windows he can appreciate Eric's handsomer features: cute nose, big eyes that are strangely sweet when he's overwhelmed like this, and plump lips that look like they'll feel very good around Kyle's cock. Kyle touches himself through his boxers, running his fingers over the shape of his hard dick, and Eric does a breathy whimper thing that makes Kyle harder.

“Can I, um?” Eric says, blinking at Kyle uncertainly. 

“Yeah.” Kyle lets his thighs fall open wider, his knees coming to rest on the mattress. Eric takes a deep breath and moves closer, crawling to him on all fours, the bed creaking under their combined weight. Kyle had thought Eric was asking permission to touch his dick, but now Eric's face is hovering over his, his toothpaste-scented breath warm on Kyle's lips as he brings his eyes shyly up to Kyle's, asking permission again. Kyle gives it by pushing his face up to Eric's, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to Eric's tentatively. His first kiss. They're both breathing hard now, and Kyle can feel Eric's eyelashes on his cheek when they kiss again. Kyle feels floaty and nervous, pressing his tongue out a little when Eric licks his mouth. Eric is so fucking big, and his arms and legs are shaking as he holds himself up over Kyle, who is still a little worried about being crushed. He moans when the kiss deepens, taken off guard by how good this feels. He hadn't expected Eric to want to kiss him, and had assumed it would be a wet mess if he tried. It is wet, but also warm and surprisingly exciting, renewed arousal jolting through Kyle's erection every time their tongues slide together. 

“Do it,” Kyle whispers, because Eric seems to be stalling, and Kyle isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to hold himself up, the whole mattress tremoring when Eric's limbs shake harder, either from exhaustion or nerves. Eric pulls back and snorts. 

“Begging for it,” he says, and he touches Kyle's cheek with tenderness that embarrasses him. “Alright. Take your boxers off.” 

Kyle does, glad that it's dark in the room and that Eric will understand why he wants to leave his t-shirt on. Eric moans and sits back to stare at Kyle's dick. Kyle fondles it self-consciously, feeling overheated. 

“Fluffy red pubes,” Eric says. “Just as I suspected.”

“They're not fluffy!” 

“Can I, uh? Feel them?”

“No!” Kyle isn't sure why he doesn't want this; he just doesn't. “Could you suck my dick?” he says, feeling ridiculous. “I mean, if you still want to.” 

“Yeah,” Eric says, and then he's touching it, squeezing. Kyle groans and throws his head back, a wave of heat surging from his balls up to his throat. For a moment he's certain he'll come. Eric's hand is sort of huge and very soft, hot, and moving slowly on his dick, pumping him. Kyle digs a tooth into his bottom lip, trying to keep the dizzying need to spill himself at bay. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, chest heaving under his t-shirt. He looks down at Eric again. “God, yeah, please—”

“Shut up, I'm doing it.” 

Kyle groans as he watches Eric lower his head, and cries out at the first pass of Eric's tongue across the head of his dick. He's so close already, throbbing. He whimpers when Eric suckles at his cockhead. The feeling is unreal, so much better than touching himself, so much better than anything. Kyle puts his hand in Eric's hair as he takes more of Kyle's cock into his mouth, wet heat enveloping him. Kyle is whispering a steady stream of curse words, going out of his mind. His balls are tightening, hips twitching. When Eric moans around his dick he comes with a shout, his orgasm ripped from him by what feels like supernatural forces. It's so different with someone else, scary good, like his pleasure is being stolen from him, taken in handfuls. He's shivering as he comes down from it, panting. 

"Eric," he says, without meaning to. Then they're kissing again, and Kyle is the one with a wet, messy mouth. He groans when he feels the lower half of Eric's weight drop down onto his legs, and he rubs his thigh up against Eric's dick when he feels it there, hard and hot through his sweatpants. Eric whines when he comes, drooling onto Kyle's cheek, which is gross but also kind of cute. He slumps over onto his side, still twitching, his eyes closed until Kyle rolls against him and presses his face to Eric's cheek. Eric's skin is hot, almost sticky. He must be sweltering in those sweatpants.

"You – you mean it?" Eric says. He looks sleepy; Kyle is going to have to gently usher him back to his own bed before the others return, though apparently they all assume this is going on anyway. 

"Mean what?" Kyle asks, though he can guess. He yawns, very tired himself.

"If I get rid of the candy you'll return the favor?"

"Sure, yeah. Tomorrow, even. But I have to come with you to the dumpster. To verify the transaction."

"You're such a little asshole," Eric says, and Kyle snorts. He closes his eyes and tries not to smile when Eric kisses him all over his face. It's a losing battle; he's beaming, eyes still closed.

"I'm not an asshole," Kyle says. "I care about you." 

Eric makes a soft sound, some half-formed word that dies at the back of his throat. He presses his forehead to Kyle's, his eyes cast downward. 

"You just want me to look all hot so you can show me off," he says.

"Well. You object?"

Eric grunts and kisses him, and Kyle allows it for a while before pulling back. He runs his hand through Eric's sweaty hair and wonders if this is how Stan feels with Craig. Outside of this bed, later, things might be weird. But here he feels elated and adored, and he wants it again, already. He knows now, all summer long, he won't be able to resist.


	6. Chapter 6

Standing behind the camp's main building well after midnight, keeping an eye out for counselors or coyotes, Kyle takes a moment to marvel at the sudden and thrilling unpredictability of his life. He'd spent quite some time imagining the potential horrors and humiliations of fat camp, and had even allowed himself to fantasize about it going well, but he never would have guessed it would lead him here, in the cool air of the desert at night, breaking curfew as he watches his bunkmate, who is sort of becoming his boyfriend, dispose of a plastic bag full of candy bars in exchange for the promise of a blow job. Mostly he just really never thought blow jobs would enter into this experience at all.

"Do it already!" Kyle says in a projected whisper when Eric lingers there with the bag of candy, staring forlornly into the darkness of the dumpster as if he's steeling himself to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. "What's the hold up?" Kyle asks, though he actually does feel some sympathy for Eric in this moment. The candy is a kind of safety net that he's pitching away, his secret stash that he brought along to make him feel better, and worse. Kyle can relate, though he didn't dare a bag of contraband himself.

"Farewell, old friends," Eric says, and he winces when he lets the bag go. It lands with a echoing thunk that Kyle finds appropriate for this scene: that's the sound of the weight Eric might have kept on if he ate all that junk food, and it was a heavy, solid noise, like a shackle he's shed. Eric stands there looking depressed for a few seconds, then turns to Kyle and grins. "Shall we do it here?" he asks.

"What - the blow job?"

"No, the merengue. Yes, the fucking blow job!"

"Hell no, I'm not doing it here! We need to get back before we're caught, and who would want a blow job by a dumpster, anyway?"

"Me. I'm not picky about the atmosphere when there's a mouth on my dick."

"Well, I am! Come over here. I'll give you something else."

Kyle puts out his hand and Eric dashes forward to take it. It's been a little weird since yesterday, mostly because Eric hovers and stares at him even when they're standing shoulder to shoulder, but Kyle has enjoyed being able to tell someone what to do, still a little surprised every time Eric actually obeys him. He pulls Eric around the side of the building, away from the unsightly dumpster, and surges up onto his tiptoes to kiss him. It's a little awkward, not as easy as kissing in bed had been, and Kyle pulls back when Eric moans into his mouth.

"Don't make that noise," Kyle says, whispering again.

"What noise?"

"That moaning kiss thing, it's weird."

"You're such a little bitch," Eric says, but when they kiss again he just sighs against Kyle's mouth, quietly. Kyle allows it until he hears a car on the road outside camp, and he pulls away from Eric's lips, sliding down to hide against his chest. Eric is breathing kind of heavily, probably getting an erection, his big hand splayed on the small of Kyle's back.

"We should go," Kyle says. "But, like. Before we do, I want to say - I'm really proud of you."

"Actions speak louder than words, Kyle."

"I'm going to blow you!" Kyle says, and his face heats from a combination of embarrassment, anxiety and annoyance. "Just not tonight. Tomorrow, during free hour, like I said."

"How will I be able to sleep?" Eric asks when they begin to walk back to the cabin. They're holding hands, because there's nobody around and no reason not to. Bebe and Tammy break into fits of giddy laughter every time Eric so much as stands near Kyle, but they haven't officially come out to their fellow campers as a couple yet. Kyle isn't even sure he wants to apply that term to whatever's going on, or that Eric does.

"I'm sure you'll get to sleep somehow," Kyle says. "I'm exhausted, personally." They had another light jog with Wendy in the morning, and this time Kyle was able to run for almost five minutes, though he felt like he might die toward the end of that stretch. Eric only managed half that and called him a show off.

"Well, goodnight, my friend," Eric says when they come to the door of their cabin, and Kyle appreciates being called a friend rather than anything more serious, though he also senses that Eric is about to say something annoying. "I'll be counting the hours until your lips encircle my dick."

"Keep saying stuff like that and they won't."

"Goddammit, Kyle, you can't keep censoring me! It's like everything I say is wrong." He seems sincere on this point, frowning, and Kyle feels bad, though he won't take back his criticisms of Eric's obnoxiousness.

"Just - goodnight," Kyle says, and he pecks Eric on the lips. "Tomorrow will be fun," he says, not sure if he can entirely believe this. He's nervous about sucking a dick. Eric swallowed his come yesterday, just gulped it down like it was no big deal, and Kyle isn't sure he wants to do that. In fact, he's pretty sure he doesn't. Inside the cabin, he climbs into bed feeling a bit queasy, and Eric is making his usual sleep-whimper noises long before Kyle manages to drift off.

Their morning workout is a somewhat embarrassing aerobic routine with Token, and Kyle's legs are trembling toward the end, mostly from the squats. Even his ass muscles feel sore as he makes his way to the nurse's station before breakfast, freshly showered and increasingly nervous. They have team building exercises with Wendy after breakfast, then comes Nutrition class and lunch, and finally their free hour. For Kyle it's not free: he's made a promise he intends to keep, but he's scared that he won't be good enough at sucking dick to convince Eric that throwing away his candy was worth it. More than that, he's just scared, though still curious enough not to want to call it off altogether.

"What's wrong?" Stan asks as soon as Kyle comes through the door of the nurse's station.

"Nothing," Kyle says. "What - why?"

"You just look - startled."

"Oh. I, uh. We had a hard workout."

Kyle hasn't talked much with Stan since they looked at Eric's medical file together. It's been awkward during Kyle's past few injections, ever since Stan found out that he's plotting to do things with Eric. Sitting on the exam table after he's taken his insulin, watching Stan put the supplies away, Kyle figures there's really only one way to dispense with this unpleasant tension between them.

"Can I get your advice on something?" Kyle asks.

"Of course." Stan jots Kyle's numbers in his little notebook and looks up. He's got a cautious look on his face, as if he's afraid he knows what Kyle is going to ask about, generally. "What's going on?"

"Is it easy to give a blow job?" Kyle asks, his face already turning very red. "Or hard?" He regrets the word 'hard,' instantly, the heat on his face seeping down to burn his chest and the back of his neck. Stan stares at him for a moment before sputtering wordlessly, his face getting pink.

"Dude, I can't - we can't talk about that kind of thing."

"Why not?"

"Because, uh! I'm - and you're-"

"I know, but I've already accidentally seen you having sex, so is this really that bad? Please, I'm really nervous."

"Kyle." Stan lifts his hands and then seems to restrain himself, taking a deep breath. He walks to the exam table, and Kyle is glad to have him closer during this conversation, though the proximity of Stan also makes his cheeks even hotter. "If you're nervous, just say no. And if he bothers you-"

"But I want to try it! I'm just. It's weird, the thought of doing it for the first time. How did you, uh. How was your first time?"

"I can't tell you about that, Jesus!"

"How come? Please? I don't need details, just a general idea."

"I was drunk," Stan says, so harshly that Kyle flinches. Stan shakes his head. "Sorry, I don't mean to shout at you, just. Don't look to me like some kind of example, please."

"But you're the only person I can ask!" He has also considered asking Bebe and Tammy, or even Henrietta since she's the oldest, but it's impossible to get a moment alone with them since Eric has basically attached himself to Kyle's hip. Kyle studies Stan's eyes, trying to make his pleading expression sympathetic and maybe even adorable. Stan looks adorable himself, confused and exasperated by Kyle's determination to have gay sex.

"Goddammit," Stan mutters, and he groans. "Alright, well, I'll say this much. If he's expecting you to do that for him, he should return the favor. If you want."

"Oh, he has. Already. Now it's my turn. He went first."

Kyle makes himself stop talking. He feels mortified and brave at the same time, his heart beating fast. Stan looks like he might cry, but only for a moment.

"Another thing I should mention," Stan says, and he sighs. "Hooking up with someone who doesn't treat you like you're - like you're something special is not so great."

"Craig doesn't treat you like that?"

"We're not talking about specifics, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, but. Well, honestly, Eric treats me like I'm special, most of the time. He-" Kyle stops himself from mentioning the wildflower, since Eric picked it against Stan's express wishes. "He kisses me and all that," Kyle says instead, muttering this. "And he does what I say. Not the other way around," he adds, firmly, because he's tired of Stan's assumptions that Eric is pressuring him into things he doesn't want to do.

"Well, that's good."

"So do you just kind of put your mouth on it, or-"

"Jesus." Stan rubs his hand over his face. "You're killing me, Kyle."

"Sorry."

"Didn't you, like. Watch? When he was doing it to you?" Stan winces and slashes his hand through the air as if to tell Kyle not to answer that. "What are you so worried about, anyway? If he's a nice guy like you say, he won't mind if you're not great at it right away. Just go slow. Demand patience from this - this kid who is lucky enough to be getting blow jobs at fifteen."

"Eric is sixteen."

"Christ. Of course he is."

Kyle is beaming, and he can't force the smile off his face. Stan said that Eric is lucky to have him, sort of. Kyle believes this is true, and there's no one he'd rather hear that from more than Stan.

"Quit grinning at me like that," Stan says. "You're giving me the creeps."

"What - why? No, I'm just happy. Thanks for talking with me like I'm not just some dumb kid."

"You're welcome. But it makes my stomach hurt, thinking of you with that kid. He's - he's got mean eyes."

"I know, but only at first. They get different if you're nice to him. He's just got a lot of baggage. I don't think he's had that many nice people in his life, until now."

"You are a very nice person," Stan says, nodding. "Just don't feel like you're obligated to help anyone with his baggage. Ever, please."

"Oh, I don't. I'm not running a charity here. I like, um. It felt really good, when he, you know."

Stan's eyes change then, and Kyle can see that he's gone too far. He slides off the exam table and heads toward the door, turning back when Stan doesn't follow.

"Are you coming?" Kyle asks, and it feels like another line he's crossed, saying that word, though he just meant to ask if Stan will walk him to the dining hall.

"Nah, I - I have to get some stuff ready, um. I'm doing the evening workout for your group tonight, so."

"Oh, good. Hey Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"You should dump Craig if he doesn't treat you right. You're special," Kyle says, feeling very awkward, and then he bolts for the door.

At breakfast, Kyle is full of restless energy, his foot bouncing under the table. He eats quickly and partners with Eric, Rebecca and Henrietta during the team building exercise, which is a game called Minefield, designed by Wendy and involving lots of shouting as blindfolded team members cross the pretend minefield one at a time. Kyle proves to be kind of bad at listening during his turns with the blindfold, but it's hard to concentrate with the other team yelling at their blindfolded person. Eric's voice is the loudest, and their team wins most of the games. At some point Kyle realizes he's actually having fun, laughing with Rebecca and Eric when Butters trips a "mine" and shrieks girlishly at the siren sound Wendy plays on her phone to indicate an explosion. Even Henrietta cracks something resembling an actual smile as Butters returns to the starting line to be consoled by Tammy and Bebe. By the time they're heading to Nutrition class Kyle has almost managed to forget his blow job anxiety.

"From now on, we're always on the same team," Eric says when they sit at their table together in the Nutrition lab. "In the team building games. Right?" he says when Kyle looks to the front of the classroom, distracted by his hatred for Craig, who is writing a recipe on the dry erase board. "Kyle?" Eric says, jabbing him in the ribs. "You're on my team indefinitely, you hear?"

"Sure," Kyle says. "Why are you worried about it? It's not like there's a cash prize for whoever wins the most rounds of Minefield."

"But it's more fun when we're on the same side," Eric says, frowning a little. Kyle touches Eric's hand behind the lab desk, tickling his fingertips across Eric's soft palm. Eric makes a kind of half-swallowed noise and smiles. "Are you excited?" he asks, muttering this in a low voice. "You get dessert today, after lunch. Yummy dessert just for you."

"Gross!" Kyle says, but he's laughing, still in a good mood.

Craig of course manages to spoil this good mood as quickly as possible. He clears his throat loudly and stares at Kyle and Eric with stoic judgment when they turn toward the front of the classroom.

"If it's not too much trouble, gentlemen," Craig says, "I'd like to begin my lesson now. Do you mind terribly?"

Kyle and Eric say nothing, and Kyle's hands curl into fists. Craig didn't even give them a warning about the start of class, and it's not as if everyone else was silent until now. Craig continues staring as if he's waiting for an actual response.

"Go," Eric says to Craig, flat and unimpressed. Kyle is flooded with appreciation for him, resolving to swallow his come after all. "We're ready."

"How gracious of you," Craig says.

Shockingly, he starts the lesson without any further backlash, maybe because Eric was the one who spoke. If Kyle had been the one to attempt a sarcastic response he might have been dragged to the front of the room and spanked in front of everyone. He squirms in his seat, imagining that, and hopes that the class will pass quickly. He's eager to get on with their free hour now, wanting to lick Eric all over for not being intimidated by Craig. The meal they make after a lesson about how the body absorbs complex versus simple carbohydrates is zucchini over quinoa, and Eric makes theatrical gagging noises as he chokes it down. Kyle elbows him, not wanting to draw the ire of Craig, who is watching them expressionlessly from the front of the classroom.

"Quinoa is a trendy whole grain on the market today," Craig says as they finish their lunch, most of them eating more slowly than usual. To Kyle, the texture is like chewy sand, and the sliminess of the zucchini doesn't help. "Sadly, American demand for this health food is causing quinoa prices to rise in economies where the local people subsist off of this grain and cannot afford what is now being priced as gourmet health food. I don't recommend using quinoa in your cooking more than once a month, for this reason. Regardless, it is an almost perfect whole grain."

"An almost perfect whole grain," Kyle says on the walk back to the cabin, mimicking Craig's awful voice. "Jesus! I hate Craig."

"Yeah, he's pretty shitty," Eric says. Nervous excitement is flowing from him in radiation-like waves, or maybe that's just his body heat. Kyle might ask him to shower again before the blow job, but at the moment all he can really think about is the horror that is Craig and the incredible injustice of someone sweet, soft, and beautiful like Stan being at that guy's mercy.

"No, I mean, I really hate him," Kyle says. "Sometimes I lie awake at night because I can't stop thinking about how bad he is and how much better the world would be without him."

"Jesus, calm down. He's just some loser who eats hamster food and thinks everyone else should, too."

"It's not just that! He's mean. Why is he educating children when he clearly hates them? Huh?"

"I don't fucking know! But I will slash the bastard's tires if he's responsible for you being too pissed off to suck my dick."

"I'm not too pissed off. I'm ready. We're doing it."

"Are you sure? I've seen the damage you can do when you're mad. If you come at my dick with your Wolverine claws I'll be forced to defend myself."

"I won't hurt your dick." Kyle glances over at Eric, who actually looks a little scared. "Quite the opposite, actually," Kyle says, speaking softly, though there's no one else around. "I loved how you talked to Craig. How you just told him to 'go' like that, like he was being an asshole, because he was. Honestly, like. It made me want to suck you off so bad."

He barely knows what he's saying, but he loves the effect it's clearly having on Eric, his breath coming faster and his pupils dilating.

"Fuck," Eric says, and his steps quicken. "You really are like me."

"Like you?" Kyle is slightly insulted by this assessment. "How?"

"You're a dirty little boy, Kyle. Aren't you?"

"Shut up! I am not. I'd never even kissed anyone before you."

"Aw, so it's just me, then? I turn you into a sex maniac? That's cool, I'm into that."

"Eric, for fuck's sake. Stop trying to sound seductive or whatever. Let me do the talking. I'm the one giving the blow job."

"I can't believe it's really happening!" Eric says when they reach the door of the cabin, and for a moment he seems very innocent, like an underprivileged kid who's about to unwrap his first ever birthday present. "You'd better not be pranking me."

"I'm not." Kyle opens the cabin door and ushers him inside. "Get in there and take off your pants."

The lights are off inside the cabin, and Kyle doesn't put them on. The front windows are covered by curtains that give privacy but don't block out the light, and there's plenty of visibility as Eric shoves down his pants and then turns his back on Kyle before taking his underwear off. His ass is enormous and dimpled with cellulite. Kyle turns away, feeling as if he's gotten ahead of himself, and adjusts the thermostat on the wall. He's sweating, and he knows Eric will be, too, once Kyle reaches the bed.

Kyle turns around to see that Eric has shoved his unclothed bottom half under the blankets on Kyle's bed, which Kyle appreciates, though he also feels badly about Eric's insecurity, as if he's caused it somehow. He thinks of the condoms but doesn't actually want some latex in his mouth, especially after having chewed on what tasted like little plastic beads during lunch. He smiles at Eric, who is fidgeting on the bed.

"Are you hard?" Kyle asks, though he can see that Eric is, at least partly, tenting the blankets.

"Yeah." Eric spreads his legs under the blankets, then brings his knees together again. "You know, if you're going to blow me, you're probably going to have to do it from this side of the room."

"I'm coming! I'm just setting the mood." Kyle is a little worried about the fact that he's not hard at all. He's just too nervous to manage an erection yet. His Craig-related rage has drained away, and it seems too quiet in the cabin, and outside, too.

"Do you want to see it?" Eric asks. He's very red across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. It's cute but not sexy, Kyle decides.

"Of course." Kyle walks to the bed, wondering if he should undress. He steps out of his shoes and sits on Eric's bed to pull off his socks. He can hear the blankets rustling, and when he looks up, there it is: Eric's cock, hard in his hand and getting harder as he strokes himself. His pubes are a sort of light brown that Kyle finds appealing. He's never liked the black ones, which look too grown up and sort of dirty in the porn he's encountered online. He looks up at Eric's face and stands to slide his track pants off. "Nice," Kyle says, feeling trembly and weird, though also a little aroused now. "Yours is, like. Super thick."

"That's right." Eric is still stroking himself, and Kyle can see him swallowing heavily. "Super thick for your pleasure."

"Ha. Yeah, so. Listen, I probably won't be good at this at first. But you can give me pointers."

"Oh, I'll give you a pointer," Eric says, stroking himself more fervently. "I've, uh. I've got your pointer right here, Kyle."

"Shut up," Kyle says, fondly, and he steps out of his track pants, walking to the bed in his t-shirt and boxers. Watching Eric touch himself has made him a little hard, but it's still odd to be in the presence of someone else's exposed dick, and even stranger to think that he'll soon have his mouth on it. Kyle drops onto the bed and stretches out along Eric's side, kissing his hot cheeks before dipping down to kiss his mouth. Eric grunts in an approving way when Kyle's tongue slides against his, and Kyle is glad he's not barking at him to get started already. He seems pretty into the kissing, actually, one hand cupping Kyle's face as his other arm slides across Kyle's back, pulling him closer. With his eyes closed, still kissing Eric's lips, Kyle reaches down blindly and feels his way over Eric's stomach, down to his surprisingly soft pubes, and they both moan when Kyle's fingers wrap around the base of Eric's cock. Kyle's eyes fly open and he sees that Eric is staring at him, wide-eyed with what seems like surprise, as if he really didn't expect Kyle to actually make contact with his dick. They breathe against each other, and Eric's eyelids lower slowly when Kyle begins to stroke him.

"Yeah," Eric says, his voice scratchy and low in a way that seems to speak directly to Kyle's cock, which is straining against the front of his boxer shorts now. Feeling bolder, he looks down at what his hand is doing and moans at the sight of his fingers encircling a thick cock, the tip leaking, Eric's big thighs trembling while Kyle strokes him.

"Fuck," Kyle breathes out, and Eric groans in agreement.

"Please," Eric says. "I'm gonna - gonna come just from this, if you don't - you won't have to suck it long, fuhh, Kyle, please-"

"Okay, shh." Kyle loves how jellified Eric is, how he whimpers a little when Kyle leans down to suck on his earlobe. "Gonna do it now," Kyle whispers, feeling powerful. Eric sighs and nods, his breath growing choppy.

The actual dick sucking task seems separate from Kyle's arousal, more scientific than hot. It's hot just to look at Eric like this, at the combination of his hugeness and vulnerability, his red face and his dick so hard that it's overflowing with a steady dribble of pre-come. When Kyle leans down to give it an experimental lick, just under the head, Eric groans and pushes his hips up needfully.

"Be still," Kyle says, squeezing Eric's thighs. They feel surprisingly good in his hands, and he squeezes again. "I won't be able to do it if you're wiggling around and humping the air."

"Kyle," Eric manages to say, staring down at him from under heavy eyelids. "Jesus, just-"

Kyle takes the head of Eric's cock into his mouth then, and he's disappointed by the taste and temperature of the pre-come: salty and lukewarm. He laps at it to get rid of it, and the pleasure of having the warm, full head of a cock between his lips comes to him slowly. Eric is doing a low groan thing, mostly staying still with the help of Kyle's hands holding his thighs in place. Kyle tries to move his head down further, his lips already straining around Eric's width. He gives up on that for the time being and just laps at Eric's shaft, licking it in orderly stripes from the base to the tip. Eric whines and trembles under Kyle's hands, almost sounding like he'll cry. Kyle hopes he won't. He likes this, he decides, the taste and the texture on his tongue. He's very hard in his boxers, though nowhere close to coming.

Eric, however, is right on the verge. Kyle can feel it, like they're connected, and he supposes they are. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself to go underwater, and attempts to get more of Eric's cock in his mouth, wrapping his hand around the base while he presses his lips downward. It's a weird sensation that makes him feel kind of panicky at first, then he remembers to breathe through his nose and it's fine, though still kind of a chore. He bobs his head a few times and Eric's shout takes him off guard. Suddenly there's hot come on Kyle's tongue, then on his lips when he pulls off with instinctual revulsion, then on his cheek. Without thinking, Kyle makes a slightly disgusted noise, wiping at his face. Eric is still trembling, come still dribbling from the tip of his cock, and Kyle likes the look of that very much. He runs his thumb through the sticky slit and grins when Eric whines, his thighs flinching.

"Goddamn," Kyle says when Eric peeks at him, going limp as his breath slows a little. "Did mine taste like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like - bitter? Sour? I'm going to rinse my mouth out, hang on."

Kyle is annoyed with himself for not having thought to put a bottle of water or juice on the bedside table for easy access, and as he's spitting water into the sink he begins to feel guilty for leaving Eric alone out there in the aftermath. He cleans his cheek, and when he returns to the room Eric has moved over to his own bed. He's lying on his side, his face partly hidden in his pillow, which he is clutching as if he's upset. Kyle wants to groan at this melodrama, but he restrains himself. He slides into bed with Eric, still hard, and hugs him from behind. It's not easy; Eric is big and sort of rigid at the moment, his eyes closed.

"Well, that was cool," Kyle says, and then he feels like an idiot. Eric scoffs. Kyle kisses his neck, which is fragrant with dried sweat, though not really in a bad way. "You okay?" Kyle asks.

"Did you hate it?" Eric's voice is partly muffled by the pillow, his shoulder lifted toward his cheek.

"No, man, I liked it. Seriously." He pokes Eric's thigh with his persisting erection, offering it as evidence.

"I used to do that when I hated it," Eric says. "Run to the bathroom and wash it all off. I didn't want to wash it off, with you. Because I liked it."

"Well." Kyle is slashed open by that, picturing Eric at this house in Nebraska, tearfully trying to get clean. "I'm just kind of a pussy about bodily fluids. And it was my first time. Sorry."

Eric sighs and rolls onto his back. His face is less red now, more pink. Kyle kisses him tentatively, leaving his eyes open.

"It was probably the quinoa," Kyle says. "That made it taste weird."

"Pineapple's supposed to make it taste good," Eric says, and rolls toward Kyle, letting Kyle tug him closer.

"Well, maybe I can get some contraband pineapple from Kenny."

"Is that who you got the condoms from?"

"Yep. He lives in that old restaurant. Don't tell anyone."

"Jesus." Eric frowns, but he opens his lips when Kyle kisses him more deeply. Kyle's dick is starting to ache with the need for release, but he supposes he can wait, because maybe they're having a moment. "You didn't let that creep fondle you in exchange for the condoms, did you?" Eric asks, spoiling the moment. Kyle rolls his eyes.

"No, Eric. Truthfully, you're the only one who's ever fondled me."

He feels bad for using that word, though Eric did so first. They kiss some more, and Kyle rubs his cock onto Eric's thigh as subtly as possible. Eric grins and reaches into Kyle's boxers to wrap his hand around it, his grin widening when Kyle gasps.

"How do you feel about rim jobs?" Eric asks, stroking him. Kyle moans inadvertently. It's one of his top three fantasies based on what he's seen in porn, but the reality also seems impossibly gross.

"Not now," Kyle says. "Just keep going, like that."

"You like that?" Eric seems to recover then, sitting up on his elbow and pushing Kyle onto his back. Kyle nods and closes his eyes, spreading his legs.

"God," Kyle says. "This is so - let's do this every day. Tell Clyde and Butters they're not allowed to come in here during afternoon free hour."

"You're goddamn right I will."

"Eric-"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck, gonna -"

Kyle grabs for Eric when he comes, squeezing his big shoulders. He's so squeezable, all of him, and Kyle even likes the feeling of being partially crushed under Eric's weight when they kiss, Kyle's leg coming up to wrap around as much of Eric as it can. For a while they stay like that, and Kyle notices that Eric is hard again. He realizes they could waste multiple free hours like this, taking turns, one erection renewing as the other one goes off. Or maybe they could figure out how to come together after practicing for a while, like synchronized swimmers. They could do anything; they could even have anal sex, which is number one of Kyle's top three fantasies based on porn. The summer has just begun, and Kyle already feels a few years older than he was when his mother dropped him off here. Pretty soon he'll catch up to Stan, emotionally. Experience-wise, even, maybe.

Thinking of Stan, he sits up and stretches. Eric is still holding him loosely, and he lifts up Kyle's t-shirt to mouth at his doughy side. Kyle laughs and squirms away when it tickles. He glances at the wall clock and sees they've only killed ten minutes of their free hour.

"Tell me about your life at home," Kyle says, because he feels like he can picture it clearly but doesn't know many actual facts. Eric snorts.

"Like what?" he says. "It's boring, it sucks."

"When I first came here, you said-"

"Yeah, I know what I said. Maybe I was trying to impress you."

"Me? Why? You called me a vile ginger and said you hate Jews. Do you seriously hate Jews?"

"I don't know that I used the word 'hate,'" Eric says, and he grunts when Kyle punches his shoulder. "Alright, fine. I don't know shit about Jews, really. Or, I didn't, before. Now I know they give good head."

"Fuck you!" Kyle says, and Eric sits up to grab him when he starts to rise from the bed.

"I'm kidding, asshole!" he says, hugging Kyle to him when he struggles feebly, feeling tired and wanting a nap, not sure that he and Eric could both sleep comfortably on one bed. He glowers at Eric, but allows him to kiss the tip of his nose. "Now I know, hmmm," Eric says. "That certain ginger Jews taste really good, and keep their dick sucking promises, and-"

"Okay, stop. I know you're 'joking' or whatever, but you seriously can't make generalizations about Jews based on whatever I do. I mean, you do know that, right?" Kyle is sincerely asking. Eric seems kind of smart, in a way, but also phenomenally stunted when it comes to social interactions of all kinds. He thinks of Eric's mother, the former beauty queen with the pedophile boyfriend. She may not have been the best influence.

"I know, I know," Eric mutters, kissing Kyle's neck. "Look," he says when he pulls back. "I don't actually give a fuck about religion or whatever. And I really – really like you. Really. Seriously."

"I'm getting that," Kyle says, and he snorts. He leans back onto the pillows, relaxing again. Eric stretches out alongside him and they mostly fit, but Kyle is overly warm, pressed up against Eric and his perpetually overheated physique. "What's your mom like?" Kyle asks when Eric plays with his hair, his boner resting pseudo-casually on Kyle's knee.

"She's like - I don't know. Like a mom."

"Not all moms are the same. Mine gives me a hard time about my grades if I get anywhere close to a B, and she says I should do more extracurricular activities, and complains that I don't make more of an effort to have friends - does yours do stuff like that?" He figures this is a good start, as opposed to 'is your mother a bigoted imbecile?'

Eric sighs as if this conversation is annoying him, and Kyle supposes he might have waited until he'd brought Eric off again to expect him to be forthcoming about his relationship with his mother, but it's too late now.

"She doesn't nag me about not having friends," Eric says. "Probably because she doesn't have any herself. She's weird. I know, like. I can tell, now."

"What do you mean?"

"She's just kinda messed up, but you can't tell by looking at her. She came from this white trash family full of fat asses - fatter than me, even." Eric gives Kyle a defiant look, and Kyle shrugs a little. He's not going to pretend Eric isn't fat, if that's what he's anticipating. "But she was like, the beauty queen," Eric says. "She didn't eat. 'Cause she didn't want to be like them."

"Jesus," Kyle says. "My mom was always kind of heavy. Which is why it pisses me off so much when she rides my ass for being 'unhealthy.' Though I guess - I mean, I know there's a difference. How about your dad? When did he leave you guys?"

"Ugh, god. Why do you want to talk about this shit?" Eric nudges Kyle's knee with his wilting dick, as if to suggest a different use of their time.

"Because I like you, too," Kyle says, scooting down to try to meet Eric's eyes. He manages it after Eric ducks his gaze a few times. "I do," Kyle says, cupping Eric's cheek. "You're interesting, and funny, and I like talking to you, so. Talk to me."

"I am. You want me to talk about my fucking dad? Fine. He was never married to my mom. That other family he has is his real one. He cheated on his stupid wife with my mom and knocked her up. The end."

"You've never met him?"

"No. I looked him up on Facebook when she told me. He played for the Broncos. He's got some kid who's older than me. A son. They're fucking gingers, my dad and his kid, but not like you. The kid is gross-looking, with freckles and all that shit. God _damn_ , I hate gingers. You're not one, really. Sorry I called you by an ethnic slur."

"Jesus," Kyle says, not even sure where to start with any of that. He tries to hug Eric, but Eric grunts and sits up, scratching at the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't have thrown that candy away," he says, mumbling. "I really want a Snickers right now. Fuck."

"How about another blow job instead?" Kyle says. Eric looks at him from over his shoulder, eyebrows lifting.

"You serious?"

"Sure, as long as you return the favor."

They spend the rest of their free hour alone together in the cabin, and Kyle wonders, dozing after a second orgasm, if Eric has already threatened Butters and Clyde with dismemberment to keep them away until their hour is up. When it is, Kyle dresses groggily and checks his blood sugar. For the first time since camp started, he's irritated rather than pleased to see that he needs an injection. There's no point in showering with the evening workout coming up after their wellness workshop, but Kyle doesn't want Stan to smell the sex on him, or the sex-related sweat.

"Do you have any, like, body spray?" Kyle asks.

"Yeah," Eric says. "But we can't smell like the same thing, and I'm already using it." He digs it out of his bag and shows Kyle the bottle. It's red and black with the word WOLFENHAMMER in gothic lettering.

"Jesus Christ. What does that even smell like?"

"Like the musk of a victorious warrior." Eric lifts up his t-shirt just enough to insert the bottle and spray some under his pits, then pulls open the front of his track pants and sprays some crotch-ward as well. The scent isn't bad, just the usual generic male body spray aroma, available on the shelves of Target.

"Why can't we smell the same?" Kyle asks when they leave the cabin together, Kyle still reeking of two people's come.

"Because, I don't know. That'd be like people who were dating wearing the same clothes. It's creepy and weird."

"Are we dating?" Kyle says, and he can't help smirking at the word. "Are we having a date later, in the cafeteria, over some baked fish and roasted carrots?"

"Oh, I'll take you on a date." Eric gives Kyle a look that makes him nervous, that predatory certainty showing in his half-smile. "To the Mexican restaurant. Plans are formulating."

"Ugh, really? I don't want to gorge and spoil everything." He's even noticed Eric slimming down a little bit, mostly around his jaw line, and his track pants are only recently saggy enough to allow for a spritz of body spray down the front.

"One meal won't spoil shit," Eric says.

"But we might get caught. I really don't want to go home yet." Kyle eyes the nurse's station as they approach it. Will Eric try to come inside? He supposes it doesn't matter, since Stan won't be there; this isn't one of their designated injection appointments.

"You won't get sent home," Eric says, and he touches Kyle's shoulder. "Relax. Leave it to me. I'll even pay for your tacos."

"I gotta go," Kyle says, indicating the nurse's station. "I need insulin. I'll meet you in wellness workshop - save me a seat?"

"I could wait outside," Eric says. He's looking at the nurse's station as if he knows it's significant but can't figure out why. Kyle has started to sweat again, increasing the come-stench.

"Nah, I might have to wait a while for one of the counselors or the nurse to show up. Go ahead, and tell them I'm on my way. I don't want to get in trouble."

"Fine." Eric looks around, then pecks Kyle on the forehead when he finds no one in sight. Kyle appreciates that he thought to check for onlookers, but he's also a little thrown by being kissed right outside the nurse's station, though it's not like Stan doesn't know what he's been up to with Eric. He watches Eric head for the main building, his steps looking a bit lighter or maybe just quicker than usual. When he tries the door to the nurse's station he's glad to find that it's not locked.

Inside, the lights are on but no one is at the nurse's desk or in the examining room. Kyle shuts the door behind him and wanders around aimlessly for a moment, enjoying the air conditioning. It occurs to him that they have soap in the little bathroom attached to the examining room, and he goes in to give it a sniff. It's nothing special, pretty antiseptic, but he closes the door and washes his dick with soapy paper towels, then cleans it off with damp ones, his face burning the whole time. He does his chest next, then his neck, and leaves the bathroom feeling slightly cleaner but still wishing he'd taken a shower before leaving the cabin.

He's memorized the internal phone number that will page Stan to the nurse's station, and he goes over to the phone on the nurse's desk to dial it, then stops himself. The fridge with his insulin and the cabinet with the meter are right there in the examining room, and they're not locked. Kyle puts the phone down and goes to the window across from the nurse's desk to check the paths outside. They're empty; no one is around. Instead of waiting for Stan to show up and notice that Kyle reeks of sex and a transparent attempt to cover it up with soap from the bathroom, he could just do the injection himself and head to the wellness workshop. It wouldn't be a big deal; he should really be allowed to manage his injections himself. He's not some little kid. He's sucked dick now, twice.

His heart starts pumping hard as he approaches the medical cabinet and the adjacent fridge. He's watched Stan fetch his supplies plenty of times, and he knows exactly where they are. He won't even need the meter; he has his portable one in the pocket of his track pants, and the reading he took in the cabin will suffice. He touches the door of the little white fridge, which sits on a table beside the medical supply cabinet that takes up most of the little room's east wall. It's cool to the touch. Kyle looks behind him, at the front door to the nurse's station. No one is there. It's ridiculous for the counselors to make him feel like taking his insulin when he needs it is an illicit activity. He opens the fridge.

He's finishing up his injection when he hears footsteps outside. Panic twists in his gut and his muscles tense up as he withdraws the needle as carefully as he can, praying it's just Stan. He turns his back when the door opens, hiding the needle, and peeks over his shoulder. He feels like he's been plunged into an ice bath when his eyes meet Craig's.

"What the hell are you doing?" Craig slams the front door shut behind him and walks into the examining room, and for a moment Kyle is so overcome with fright that he expects to be struck. "Where's Stan?" Craig asks, surveying the room.

"I – he—" Kyle can feel his face getting red, and the sex small on his skin and clothes seems to intensify tenfold; he sees Craig's nostrils twitch as if he's noticed it.

"Turn around," Craig says, speaking slowly. "What have you got in your hands?"

"It's just my insulin!" Kyle spins toward Craig and thrusts the needle out, showing him. "I needed a shot and no one was here, and—"

"You know you're not supposed to take insulin without supervision. How many times have you broken in here like this? Did you pick the lock?"

"No! It was unlocked, and I never – never before, I just—"

"Give that to me." Craig takes the needle, holding the end of it between his thumb and forefinger as if it's a used tampon. "Does Stan know that you're taking insulin without supervision?" he asks as he goes to the fridge with it.

"No, it was me, Stan has no idea, please don't get mad at him, I just wanted to get it over with quick and go to my workshop, it's hard to wait until someone can—"

"Stop." Craig turns from the fridge and regards Kyle with a stoic calm that doesn't do much to conceal his pleasure at having caught Kyle breaking camp rules. "I could have Mackey throw you out for this," he says. "Breaking into the medicine cabinet is an extremely serious offense."

"I was just getting my insulin! It's not like I was stealing painkillers or something. And, if – if—"

"If what, Mr. Broflovski? Spit it out." Craig seems to know exactly what Kyle is going to say, which is infuriating. Kyle narrows his eyes, wishing he was taller. He feels very young and small, here alone in the presence of Craig, who could be forty for all Kyle knows. He's got some fine lines near his eyes, and his lips are thin. Kyle pictures Stan kissing those hateful lips and rage starts spooling into his belly, heating his skin.

"If you try to have me thrown out," Kyle says, speaking slowly, "I'll tell Mackey you're screwing one of his junior counselors."

"Oh, will you?" Craig's smile is tiny and threatening. "That's rather cruel of you, considering it might cost Stanley his job."

"Stanley?" Kyle snorts. Stan probably hates being called that; it doesn't suit him. "No, I – you're the one taking advantage of a younger person."

"Younger, yes, but he's a consenting adult, and there's nothing in the employee handbook forbidding us from dating our co-workers. And even if there was – I thought you were fond of Mr. Marsh? You would really be willing to humiliate him and endanger his position here by going to Mackey about what you saw when you were spying on us in the laundry room?"

"I wasn't spying! Jesus, what is wrong with you?" Kyle's face is burning as rage is builds, making him feel bigger and unstoppable, as if he's growing along with his anger. He'd love to tear into Craig like he's a brittle shrub, snapping bits of him off and shredding them.

"What is wrong with me?" Craig raises his eyebrows. "Nothing, I assure you. You may find this hard to believe, as you seem to have styled me as some kind of personal enemy, but I do actually care about your wellbeing as one of my students, despite your poor attitude and consistent disrespect. I'd be willing to keep this incident between us if you assure me it will never happen again."

Kyle opens his mouth, and he lets it hang open until his anger has receded enough to allow him to comprehend what Craig just said. He's still furious, because Craig is the one who has 'styled' Kyle as a personal enemy ever since the laundry room incident. He wishes Stan would rush in and come to his defense, though he also appreciates the idea of Stan being kept in the dark about Kyle doing an injection without him, if Craig is serious about not telling.

"I won't do it again," Kyle says, trying to force himself to calm down; he can't seem to get his jaw to unclench. "It was dumb of me, and I'm sorry. Just, please. I want to stay here. I need to."

"Then perhaps you'd better start acting like it. One more toe over the line and I won't be able to continue looking the other way. Can I trust you to convey yourself to your wellness workshop without supervision, or are you going to run off and resume doing whatever you please as soon as you leave here?"

"I'm not a bad kid," Kyle says, and he wishes that hadn't come out sounding so pathetic. Craig sniffs dismissively and points to the door.

"Prove it," he says.

Kyle goes for the door, waves of rage crashing into him again, and he knows as he reaches for the doorknob that he won't be able to hold it in. He turns back toward Craig, who is neatening the magazines on the table near the medicine cabinet.

"You should leave Stan alone," Kyle says. Craig turns and frowns, his usual air of placid judgment morphing into something much sharper that's pointed directly at Kyle.

"Excuse me?"

"He's – you're his boss! It's not right."

Kyle flees the nurse's station as quickly as he did after telling Stan that he's special. He almost wants to say that to Craig, to try to explain to him how lucky he is and how ungrateful, but he's too afraid that he doesn't really know what he's talking about. Jogging toward the main building, propelled by the adrenaline that's been pulsing through him since his eyes met Craig's, he feels young and stupid, like a scolded child. He wonders if Craig makes Stan feel that way. The last thing Stan needs is someone who talks down to him, who probably chuckles condescendingly at his insecurity and treats him like a dumb jock who's only good for sex. Kyle is still worked up as he pushes into the main building, his vision tunneled by the spike of rage that he hasn't been able to vent, and when he turns a corner fast he crashes right into Stan.

"Whoa, hey!" Stan steadies him by catching his shoulders, and when Kyle looks up into his eyes and sees the earnest concern there he's certain for a moment that his rage is going to dissolve into helpless sobbing, which sometimes happens. He bites it back, but he knows Stan will see that something is wrong. "Kyle, hey," Stan says, squeezing his shoulders. "What's the matter?"

Stan's worried expression seals it, and there's no going back: the first massive sob builds in Kyle's chest until it hurts, and he's got no choice but to let it out. He's not even sad, really, and the anger is quickly abating, but it's been such a long, weird day, and he's just now realizing how profoundly exhausted he is. Stan makes a soft noise, like Kyle's sobs are wounding him, and he pulls Kyle back around the corner, taking him down the hall that leads to the restrooms. It's quiet; all three groups of campers are in sessions. Kyle doesn't really know what to expect, and he lets out his breath with an embarrassing whine when Stan brings him into the corner near the Fruit Facts bulletin board and gives him a hug.

"That's alright, buddy," Stan says, rubbing Kyle's back and letting him cling hard. "You just let it out."

This makes Kyle cry harder, and it's with something like joy, or just the pure relief of having someone as good and solid as Stan to hold onto while he feels this way. He's not even sure he could put a word to it, but 'overwhelmed' might be close. It's everything: Craig, Eric, even Stan himself, and this feeling that he's at the very edge of a time in his life when everything will change.

"I'm sorry," he cries, because he's getting tears and snot on the shoulder of Stan's polo.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Stan says, still rubbing Kyle's back. If Kyle hadn't come twice in the past hour he'd probably be getting an erection just from this; Stan feels so strong, and he smells amazing. Only when he notices this does Kyle remember his own sordid scent, and he pulls back a little. He meets Stan's eyes nervously, afraid he'll assume that these tears are Eric's fault, blow job-related.

"I did my insulin injection without you," Kyle says. "Craig caught me."

"Oh, Jesus. Are you – what happened?"

"Nothing. I'm just so sorry. I should have called you. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Shit, well. Don't worry about it. I won't let Craig get you in trouble."

"I know."

For a few seconds they just stand there like that, Stan's hands resting on Kyle's shoulders while he regains his composure. Kyle realizes he's holding onto the hem of Stan's shirt and lets go, reluctantly.

"I can't go to workshop like this," Kyle says. "They'll know I've been crying." He especially wants to keep this from Eric, who will jump to conclusions and feel hurt. This isn't about him, really. Kyle enjoyed himself earlier. It's just weird to reenter the world as someone who has sucked dick, suddenly.

"Alright." Stan gives Kyle's shoulders another squeeze. "We'll tell everybody you had a complication with your medicine and that you needed to rest. Just – come with me. I'm off shift until the evening workout."

Kyle nods and follows Stan out of the main building, toward a row of little cottages that he hasn't noticed before. He realizes when Stan unlocks one of them that this is where he's been living: his private quarters. It's a small room with a twin bed, wooden dresser, and a kitchenette with a mini fridge, sink, and range stove. The door to the attached bathroom is open, a soggy-looking towel hanging on the knob. Stan picks some clothes up off the floor as they walk inside, and Kyle is overcome with the desire to take everything in all at once, and to study every detail. There's a floor fan, Stan's guitar, his sand-crusted hiking boots, an empty can of Red Bull. The room smells like chicken-flavored Top Ramen and aftershave, and Kyle wants to squeal with delight at being allowed in here, but he holds it in.

"I'm finishing up my notes for the workout tonight," Stan says. "We have to fill out this form that says our goals for the group or whatever." He picks up a clipboard from the bed and shows Kyle, who hurries over to examine it. "You can lie down if you need to," Stan says, gesturing to the bed.

"I'm – I'm okay. What if Craig comes?"

"Craig?" Stan snorts. "Nah, he never comes here. Just relax, alright? You need a break."

Kyle appreciates the confidence with which Stan declares this, and he takes a seat on the bed beside him, because there's no where else to sit. Kyle leans against the wall and watches Stan jot notes about the evening workout, which will apparently be a lesson in proper swimming strokes. Stan seems slightly anxious and sighs a lot. Kyle is perfectly content, sneaking looks at Stan's face while he writes. His handwriting is adorably boyish, small and precise but not neat.

"Do you want to talk about why you were crying?" Stan asks, keeping his eyes on his notes.

"Nah," Kyle says. "Not now, anyway."

He's enjoying the peaceful quiet of Stan's little room too much to fill it with chatter, and the sobbing did the trick already, draining the fury out of him. He thinks of Eric in wellness workshop, holding a seat for him, probably worried. Even that can't disturb his calm, and he feels young again, but not the way he did when Craig was barking at him in the nurse's station. This is much more comfortable: being cared for, looked after, and tucked into a pocket of cool quiet with someone who will protect him from the harsh glare of everything outside this little room.

"We're gonna play this game after the workout," Stan says after a long stretch of quiet. "It's really fun, it's called Categories. You stand on the end of the diving board and bounce, and after your feet leave the board someone calls out a category like 'cars' or 'colors,' and before you land in the water you have to shout out a type of car, or a color, or whatever they prompted, and if you can do it you get a point. It's harder than it sounds."

"Sounds awesome," Kyle says, and when Stan looks up and smiles at him he has to stop himself from leaning over to kiss him. It would be absurd, disastrous, but also so good, Kyle thinks, so very good, in some alternate universe where Stan might kiss him back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay in posting this - life got annoyingly busy. Only three chapters left! Thanks again to all who have commented, left kudos or otherwise expressed your enthusiasm for this story. I've struggled with it in some ways and the encouragement means a lot.

Sitting in Mackey's office and waiting for him to arrive for their weekly individual counseling session, Kyle stares incredulously at the wall calendar, which features pictures of moss-covered forest glens shadowed by trees. Kyle has become very familiar with the mossy creek bed featured in June, because he often stares at it when he doesn't feel like making eye contact with Mackey. Today it's been flipped to July, and the picture above the days of the month is a mossy old staircase, but that can't be right.  
  
"Is today July first?" Kyle asks when Mackey walks in, shutting the door behind him. It seems impossible that he's already been here for a month, though it also feels like a very long time since he's been home.  
  
"Mhmm, no, it's actually the third of July." Mackey takes his seat across from Kyle, crosses his legs and rests the notebook he carries everywhere on his knee. "Tomorrow we're going to have a special Fourth of July party at the pool," he says. "With veggie dogs and turkey burgers and so forth. Did you lose track of the date?"  
  
"Well, yeah. It's hard to keep track when we're not allowed to have phones, or tablets, or anything."  
  
"I see. I know it's a little hard to get used to, but most of our campers find that disconnecting from the devices we tend to rely on to distract us from our innermost thoughts can help them look within and grow as people. Have you felt that way at all?"  
  
"I guess," Kyle says, mumbling. "I mean. I feel like I'm living in this whole other world. Like time and gravity and everything are just -- different, here."  
  
This prompts Mackey to open his notebook and begin to write. Kyle supposes its pages are full of all of the secrets that the campers have told Mackey during individual therapy, and sometimes he wants to steal it and read Mackey's notes on Eric, though he would never actually do that, partly because he's afraid to find out what, if anything, Eric has told this man about their afternoons together in the cabin. Kyle still hasn't even come out to Mackey, and it irks him that Eric might have come out for him. He claims that he hasn't, but Kyle has caught him lying before.  
  
"You mentioned gravity feeling different," Mackey says, still jotting notes. "Could that be because you've lost some weight?"  
  
"Maybe," Kyle says, though that's not really what he meant. He looks down at his stomach, which has shrunk a little, the waistbands on his pants and boxers looser now. He still feels like an awkward fat kid, and the workouts are still hard and often humiliating, but he's started taking his shirt off when he fools around with Eric, mostly because he likes having his nipples sucked on and twisted. Thinking of this, he blushes and stares at the moss calendar. Eric still leaves his shirt on when they're alone in the cabin together, and during pool workouts. He's been dropping weight rapidly in the past couple of weeks, and he's started using the weight bench in the rec room voluntarily, between workouts. It wasn't entirely his idea; Kyle told him he finds weightlifting hot, which is true. They've been lifting together at the start of their free hour, then hurrying back to the cabin to fool around while they're both still endorphin-high and sweating.  
  
"Kyle?" Mackey says, recapturing his attention. "Want to share your thoughts with me?"  
  
"Oh, uh, no -- I mean, yeah, I just. It's weird, how we're all starting to lose weight. I guess I thought it wouldn't really happen."  
  
"How does it feel to be lighter?"  
  
"Pretty good," Kyle says, embarrassed by the subject, which is absurd, considering it's the whole point of him being here. At least, that's what he thought the whole point would be. Sometimes he catches himself thinking he's here to learn how to have gay sex. It's certainly the part of his days here that he looks forward to the most, along with his talks with Stan in the nurse's station. They haven't discussed what Kyle is doing with Eric, but Stan knows that something is going on, and it's disturbingly arousing to think of Stan picturing him with Eric, worrying because Kyle is young and vulnerable. Kyle redirects his thoughts and stares at the moss calendar again, willing himself not to get hard here in Mackey's office. He's having a difficult time getting his mind off of sex lately. It's just so good, and suddenly he's having so much of it, though he still hasn't tried dick-in-butt sex or anything close. He's just begun to let Eric interact with his ass. It's thrilling and scary and it's fogging his brain again; he forces himself to meet Mackey's eyes.  
  
"Are you okay today, Kyle?" Mackey asks. "You seem distracted."  
  
"I'm fine. It's just the heat. It makes me sleepy in the afternoons."  
  
"Oh, sure, mmkay, I get that, too. Well, let me ask you this -- do you feel lighter mentally as well as physically? We've talked about some of your issues with anger, and I'm wondering if that's gotten any better, in your view?"  
  
"I guess." The last time Kyle felt really angry, after Craig caught him in the nurse's station, he'd ended up crying on Stan's shoulder. He's never been a big crier, but the experience was cleansing, and sitting quietly in Stan's room afterward seems to have sealed that feeling into a lasting calm. Or maybe it's all the orgasmic releases that are keeping him from boiling over with anger at random intervals.  
  
"You don't seem as introspective as usual today, Kyle," Mackey says. "Any reason for that, do you think?"  
  
"I really am just tired." Kyle glances at the clock and sees they've only been at this for five minutes. He starts to feel itchy with the need to introduce some new subject to talk about, and annoyed when all he can think about is the fact that they haven't discussed his sexual orientation. It's still none of Mackey's business, as long as Kyle doesn't want to talk about it. He just wishes that he could be sure that he'd doesn't, and that he's not being cowardly as opposed to selectively honest.  
  
"Let's talk about the last time you felt really angry," Mackey says. "Can you recall that?"  
  
Kyle can, but he doesn't want to tell Mackey about Craig and the illicit insulin injection that he gave himself. He thinks back further and remembers the shrub and the cuts on his hands, but that was also Craig-related and he's discussed it with Mackey at length already.  
  
"I guess what really pisses me off is when authority figures abuse their authority," Kyle says. "That's when I go into rage-mode, because it's so unfair."  
  
"Okay, interesting, that's good." Mackey writes something down. "And how do you think this relates to your fear of your mother and her control over your life?"  
  
"I don't think that it does, necessarily."  
  
"You don't sometimes view her as an authority figure who's behaving unfairly?"  
  
"Well. Yeah, I guess. I do. Sometimes."  
  
"Mmmkay. Well, do you see where I'm going with this, Kyle?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Maybe, underlying all these outbursts over what you view as misused authority, is an anger toward your mother that you don't feel comfortable expressing to her, because you fear the consequences of confronting her with your true feelings?"  
  
"Well, yeah. I mean, I can't yell at her when she pisses me off, because she'll ground me, or take away my tablet, or make me redo the wallpaper in the pantry. She has total control over my life, so I'm pretty much at her mercy until I'm eighteen, and even then they'll be paying for my college and she'll hold that over me--" He makes himself stop talking when he hears how worked up he's getting. Mackey is writing furiously in his notebook. "Doesn't everyone feel this way about their parents when they're my age?" Kyle says, practically shouting this and increasingly frustrated by Mackey's moving pencil.  
  
"It's certainly a common feeling, yes. In many cases, kids your age have fairly dramatic confrontations with their parents over these feelings. My concern, based on what you've told me about your home life, is that you're not expressing these angry feelings toward your mother specifically, and that your repressed anger is going to continue to manifest in unhealthy ways when you redirect it toward other authority figures, mmkay?"  
  
"Okay," Kyle says, barely withholding the urge to mimic Mackey's droning voice.  
  
"How about this," Mackey says. "You don't seem very open to talking today, and that's fine, that's just fine. But we could use our time here together in another way. Why don't you write a letter to your mother? It doesn't have to be a confrontational letter, and you don't have to share the contents with me if you don't want to. Just start writing to her and see what comes. How about that?"  
  
"Alright," Kyle says, though he doesn't like the idea at all. It does sound preferable to talking about this more. He doesn't like to admit how terrified he is of his mother's judgment and how much he resents her ability to hand down punishments. It makes him feel very unmanly, weak, and childish. He sighs and accepts a piece of paper and a pencil when Mackey brings them over.  
  
There's a table with two chairs near the big window that looks out on the desert, and Kyle goes to sit there, feeling uncomfortably observed, though Mackey is paging through a book and pretending to ignore him. He looks down at the blank sheet of paper and thinks of writing DO YOU KNOW I'M GAY? in huge letters. He feels, sometimes, like she must, but also that if she suspected anything she would have brought it up immediately. He can hear the clock ticking and feels pressured to start writing, as if this is a timed essay.  
  
 _Dear Mom,_  
  
 _Well, somehow I have been here at fat camp for over a month. Time flies when you're dizzy with hunger and stumbling sweaty through the desert. Just kidding. I actually appreciate that you sent me here. I know you and Dad spent a lot of money on it. I know that it means you care about me and want me to be happy. I have actually made some friends here and I'm losing some weight. I feel better, but I'm also afraid that when I come back home everything will go back to "normal" and I'll just miss this place and these people and how everything felt different and special here. Not that being home with you guys isn't special. After talking to some of the kids here, I've really come to appreciate the loving and stable home you and Dad have provided all my life._  
  
Kyle stares down at this first paragraph, feeling like he's being a kiss ass in a letter that he might not even actually send. He's talked with Mackey about how it's important to him to please his parents and how he resents the fact that his little brother doesn't seem to give a shit about their opinions and impresses them effortlessly anyway. Feeling bold, he doodles a cock and balls in the margin, then quickly erases it. He feels panicked when he can still see the lewd outline of the drawing after it's been erased, as if his mother is seeing this now, live. He tears that part of the paper off as quietly as he can and balls it up into his fist. When he sneaks a look at Mackey, he's staring at Kyle, frowning.  
  
"Is everything okay over there, Kyle?" he asks.  
  
"Um, yep. Just thinking about what else to write."  
  
"Is there any significance to the fact that you just tore part of the letter off?"  
  
"Well. Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."  
  
Mackey frowns a little more deeply but looks back to his book. Kyle's face is on fire now, and he feels something familiar building in his chest: white hot anger, and a sudden need to violently reject Mackey's attempt to control him. He closes his eyes and turns his face toward the window, counting backward and trying not to begin composing drafts of what he'd like to scream at Mackey right now. The backward counting isn't working, and his fist is beginning to shake. He wants to throw the erased cock and balls drawing in Mackey's face and scream at him for being a bad psychiatrist, because he hasn't figured out what Kyle's real problem is, and it should be fucking obvious, considering how Eric practically sits in Kyle's lap during group therapy.  
  
Kyle digs a tooth into his lip and makes himself return, mentally, to Stan's shady little room. He hears the whir of the floor fan and Stan's worried sighs, sees the guitar propped in the corner and the dark hair on Stan's arm that was almost touching the hair on Kyle's, almost. He opens his eyes and stares out at the desert while the rage recedes. When it has, he turns back to the letter to his mother.  
  
 _I wonder what the house is like without me. Is dinnertime less tense? Are you and Dad able to relax without always coming to knock on my door, trying to catch me eating junk food in my room? Are you worried about me here, assuming I'm not doing well? Sometimes I feel like you have both insanely high expectations of me and also this constant suspicion that I'm going to screw my life up irreversibly if you stop monitoring me for a single moment. I am not that bad, Mom! Maybe I overeat, and I can be sarcastic and I don't make friends easily, but maybe I'm also dealing with things that you're not realizing or taking into account. You don't KNOW everything about me, Mother. I know you think you do, and maybe you've even guessed some things, but you don't know what it feels like to be me in that small town, at that school. When you grew up in Jersey you had loads of friends, and I know you say you're embarrassed about how you partied but you had an outlet for your stress and I don't have that! All I have is bags of chips and candy and secret frozen pizzas. Remember when you caught me eating a frozen pizza raw because I couldn't sneak downstairs to heat it up without getting caught, and I was so desperate to get it into me that I ate it anyway? You looked at me like you had found a dead body in my room! Yes, it was gross and weird, but why do you have to look at me like I'm such a huge disappointment sometimes? When I'm really not? It really hurts my feelings that I can't do anything wrong without you acting like it's a sign of the end times, Kyle's life is headed for ruin, etc etc etc ETC!!!!!!!!_  
  
Kyle is breathing hard by the time he angrily dots the last exclamation point, but it's not an oncoming rage-spiral. He's not even upset, really. Writing that felt good. He glances over at Mackey and isn't surprised to see him staring again, smiling a little now.  
  
"Looks like you had some things you needed to say?"  
  
"I guess." Kyle puts the pencil down and flexes his fingers, which are sore from gripping it so tightly.  
  
"Do you want to talk about what you wrote in the letter?"  
  
"No. Not -- yet. Maybe in the future. Not today."  
  
"Mmkay, that's fine. Do you feel like you need to write more?"  
  
"No. I think I'm done."  
  
"Would you like me to mail the letter to your mother? We can seal it up right here and bring it out to the mail, I won't read it."  
  
"No." Kyle folds the letter once, then again. "But. I want to save it. Maybe I could mail it, or show her -- maybe. Just not now."  
  
"That's fine, Kyle. Would you like to cut the session short for the day? I feel like we made some progress here."  
  
Kyle isn't sure what constitutes 'progress' in therapy, but he does feel better when he leaves Mackey's office. As has become his guilty habit, he peeks into the laundry room as he passes it, but there's nobody in there, and the machines are quiet. Kyle has his free hour now, and Eric has his Mackey appointment in ten minutes. After lunch they'll skip the optional craft workshop as usual, lift some weights, have some sex. Kyle is grinning as he heads back to his cabin, feeling as if he told his mother off and she didn't get to tell him he was a disrespectful, spoiled child in return. He knows she loves him, but he feels like he's right about some of what he wrote. It's nice to have this feeling and not immediately double back and tell himself that he's ungrateful for feeling this way.  
  
Even Nutrition class doesn't manage to shake Kyle's good mood, and the grilled corn and black bean salad that they make at their lab stations is pretty tasty. Eric is picking black bean skins from his teeth on the way to the cabin after their lifting session, and he grunts when Kyle reaches over to slap his arm.  
  
"That is so gross," Kyle says when Eric picks at his teeth again. "Jesus, we're about to go--" He glances at the path behind them and finds it empty, but lowers his voice anyway. "We're about to go have sex, and you're digging bean hides from your teeth. You're not exactly putting me in the mood, here."  
  
Eric snorts and gives Kyle a smug look.  
  
"You're always in the mood."  
  
"I am not!" Kyle says, although, really, he is. "And to think I was planning to let you try something new today," he adds, knowing the effect this will have.  
  
"What?" Eric tugs at Kyle's arm. "Tell me. What are we gonna try?"  
  
"I don't know if it will happen now. Not unless you wait until we're there and floss in the bathroom instead of giving me a full view of your makeshift dental work."  
  
"Makeshift dental work?" Eric busts out laughing and puts his overly warm hand on the small of Kyle's back. "Man, you are in rare form today. What's got into you, prissy pants?"  
  
"That's it. We're not doing shit now. You can spend your free hour reading _Old Yeller_."  
  
"Oh, yeah right, I saw you getting a semi when I was on the weight bench! Jesus, I'm sorry I called you prissy. You're the one who can't deal with a little tooth picking."  
  
"Any tooth picking is too much tooth picking. I'm going to be kissing you soon. I don't want to be thinking about what was just stuck between your teeth when I do so."  
  
This silences Eric, who gives Kyle a sort of moony look, as if he still can't believe that kissing will soon commence. The cloud of confidence Kyle has been sailing on since he left Mackey's office seems to buoy him even further off the ground; Eric thinks he's so fucking great. Kyle can't get over it and can't get enough of it, even when Eric is annoying the shit out of him, which is happening less often in the past week or so. Kyle likes picking at Eric just enough to start a minor disagreement, and he likes threatening not to offer himself up in the cabin, though Eric knows by now that Kyle is looking forward to it just as much as he is. It's fun to know where someone's buttons are located and to be given this amazing carte blanche permission to push them. He takes Eric's hand as they come to the cabin door, slightly put off by how sweaty Eric's palm is. It's forgivable, since he was just lifting weights, and it's true that Kyle had started to get a little hard as he watched Eric grunting with his legs spread around the bench.  
  
"So?" Eric says, bounding over to his bed as soon as they're inside. They've started doing things there for the most part, because Kyle prefers his sheets not to smell like sex. "What are we trying today?" Eric is already taking off his pants and stepping out of his shoes. Kyle sighs and stretches his arms up over his head, showing Eric his belly when his shirt lifts.  
  
"I was thinking," he says. "Just, thinking. Maybe you could, like. Finger me a little."  
  
Eric freezes, his hands on the waistband of his boxer shorts. He looks almost afraid of how excited he is, and Kyle really likes that look on him.  
  
"Yeah -- yes." Eric swallows and nods, standing there with his sweatpants pooled around his ankles. "I could do that."  
  
"I'm not going to return the favor, though," Kyle says. He really doesn't want to put his hand or any other body part between the cheeks of another boy's ass, sweaty or not, and Eric's is particularly intimidating.  
  
"That's fine!" Eric says, backing into the bed. "I don't care, I'm generous like that, I'll finger you for free."  
  
"Ha, well." Kyle takes his t-shirt off, still not quite comfortable with what's underneath. He touches his puffy tits, trying to make this seem seductive while Eric stares at him. "Don't just go right to it," Kyle says. "Work me over first, alright? I have to relax and stuff."  
  
"Of course! Yes! No hurry!"  
  
"And we'll need lubrication."  
  
"Lotion! The bathroom, there's that hand lotion, or your sunscreen, or we could use Butters' lavender conditioner, it smells pretty good--"  
  
"I'll get the hand lotion," Kyle says, withholding laughter. He tries to imagine how lost and stammery Eric would get if he was allowed to put his cock in Kyle's ass. Kyle has been thinking about it. He's scared by the idea, but also very curious, and after this summer there's no telling when he'll get his next chance to experiment with someone whose medical chart he's checked for STDs.  
  
He feels a bit cruel and cynical, thinking of Eric that way, and when he returns to the bed with the lotion he straddles Eric, pressing his shoulders back against the headboard. He holds Eric's gaze for a moment before leaning in to kiss him, charmed by how quiet and nervous he gets when Kyle offers something new. Just two days ago, he let Eric lick his ass a few times, and balked when his tongue got close to the hole, though it did feel incredibly good. It's just all so weird, except for this: Kyle has gotten very used to the feeling of being held in Eric's lap, Eric's hands resting on his hips while they kiss. He sets a teasing, leisurely pace, drawing away from Eric's mouth and laughing when Eric grunts and lunges forward to kiss him again, his hands moving down to squeeze Kyle's ass. He's still wearing his briefs.  
  
"Push me down and suck on me a little," Kyle says, muttering this into Eric's ear. He loves giving instructions but he's still too embarrassed to look Eric in the eye when he does so. He loves what follows, too: Eric pressing him back onto the bed and hovering over him, sucking and nipping at Kyle's neck until he whines. "You'll leave a mark," Kyle says.  
  
"Good." Eric looks up into Kyle's eyes, bumping their noses together. "What are you worried about? All our friends know I ravish you in here every day." He reaches down and squeezes Kyle's cock when he groans, massaging him through his underwear. "That's right. They all know I spend my free hour making you come. Aww, you're blushing. I bet even the counselors know, Kyle."  
  
This makes Kyle shoot out of his reverie, and he gives Eric a questioning look. Eric just grins and moves down to suck on Kyle's left nipple. Kyle gasps and arches, still surprised that this feels so good. It's something he never thought to include in his fantasies, but Eric is quickly becoming masterful at making him arch like this, digging his thumb into one nipple while he bites and licks at the other. Kyle takes a handful of Eric's hair and tries to guide his head a bit, but for the most part he's pinned and at Eric's mercy, which makes his heart hammer and his dick achingly hard.  
  
Eric kisses his way down over Kyle's stomach, moving quickly when Kyle flinches a little. It tickles and makes him feel blubbery, but he forgets his stomach when Eric mouths his dick through his briefs.  
  
"Are you really going to let me finger you?" Eric asks as he pulls the briefs down over Kyle's thighs and knees, allowing his sticky cock to spring free. "Or is it going to be like when I tried to rim you and you got the vapors?"  
  
"I didn't get the vapors! It was just -- an unexpected feeling. Not bad, mostly good, but just kind of crazy. Too crazy, maybe."  
  
"Maybe I'd know what you meant if you returned the favor."  
  
"Eric, I told you. I will never put my mouth on anyone's asshole. I'm sorry, it's just not who I am."  
  
"Who you _are_?" Eric snorts but doesn't seem to care too much: he's pumping Kyle's dick, nudging his thighs apart with his other hand. "Damn, look how wet you're getting," he says, and he rubs one finger through Kyle's leaking slit. Kyle moans and spreads his legs even wider, his face very red from the lingering and strangely arousing thought that everyone out there knows what's going on in here. He gasps when he feels Eric parting his ass cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, feeling for his hole.  
  
"I thought you were going to suck me?" Kyle says, his thighs twitching with the impulse to close.  
  
"I did. I sucked on your nips, look how hard and swollen they are. Just like your dick -- mhmm, god, you need it so much, don't you? Are you gonna get all whimpery when I put a finger in? I think you are, Kyle. I bet you're so fucking tight."  
  
"Shut up," Kyle mutters, though it's not really an insult. He reaches down for his dick and then decides not to stroke himself. He's close already, and he doesn't want to come yet. He moans and closes his eye when he feels the pad of Eric's finger on his hole, testing around the rim.  
  
"You gonna let me tame this tight ass?" Eric asks, though Kyle has told him he hates that kind of dirty talk. It's only half true. "Hmm? You want something nice and thick up there?"  
  
"Jesus, stop talking," Kyle says, laughing. "I told you what I want, so don't be cute about it. Put the l-lube on, ah."  
  
"You like this already, nnh, yeah. I can tell." Eric is running his fingertip in slow circles around Kyle's hole while he clenches and releases, gasping. "Yeah, you like that so much, Kyle. You're all shaky."  
  
"The lube, I said! Get it!"  
  
Eric grabs the bottle of lotion and Kyle presses his knees together, feeling overly vulnerable. He has to resist the urge to reach down and put his own fingers where Eric's just were, because he's still sort of tingling from that touch, anxiously wanting more.  
  
"Aren't you going to take your shorts off and everything?" Kyle asks.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Getting ahead of myself here." Eric wipes his lotiony fingers on his shorts before shoving them down along with his underwear. His cock springs free in a way that makes Kyle's mouth wet. He's discovered that he really loves giving blow jobs, now that doing so isn't entirely new. He'd never considered that having a dick in his mouth might be enjoyable sheerly for how much control it gives him over the person who is attached to said dick. "Having second thoughts?" Eric says, placing a hand on Kyle's knee.  
  
"No." Kyle opens his legs again, feeling his blush spread across his cheeks and then down toward his chest. "But do you have to be down there?" Kyle asks when Eric reapplies lotion to his fingers, his breath coming in audible excited huffs now.  
  
"Down here? Well, your ass is down here, so--"  
  
"But you could reach it, you know! From up here."  
  
"Up -- oh." Eric moves from between Kyle's legs and stretches out at his side, snuggled up next to him. He's very warm, and Kyle feels more comfortable when Eric kisses him before reaching down between his legs again. "Better?" Eric asks, muttering this against Kyle's lips. Kyle nods, and gasps when he feels Eric's slick fingers picking up where he left off. It's weird, like submitting to a physical exam, and Kyle prefers this way, with Eric just feeling him and not looking, too.  
  
"Make me come," Kyle says, able to hold Eric's gaze as he says this. "Before – you know. And then I won't be so tense."  
  
"Aw, you're tense?" Eric seems sincerely concerned, and he slides his free arm under Kyle's neck, hugging him closer. "What do you want, a BJ? Hand job?"  
  
"Just – your hand. I'm close."  
  
“You're close, already?” Eric grins as if he's proud of himself for this. Kyle shrugs, a little embarrassed but not very. He moans when Eric takes hold of his cock and pumps him, and wonders what it would be like to have Eric's finger in him while his other hand worked his dick like this. He throws his head back, thinking about how strange and possibly good it would be to have a whole thrusting cock in his ass. The memory of Stan getting fucked over the laundry machine flashes through his mind and he's done for, spilling over Eric's fingers and groaning through his orgasm. Eric's panting mouth comes down to quiet his, and Kyle opens for him, lapping at his tongue. When Eric's fingers wiggle in between his ass cheeks again, Kyle spreads his legs and opens his eyes, less nervous now but still on edge when one fat fingertip prods him as if asking to enter.  
  
“Go slow,” Kyle says.  
  
“Duh.” Eric kisses Kyle's forehead, and they both groan when his fingertip pops inside. It stings a little, or burns, but whatever this odd sensation is, Kyle doesn't want it to stop. He feels hot all over and realizes he's sweating more than Eric is, which is unusual. “Okay?” Eric asks.  
  
“Nnh, yeah, just. Don't put the whole finger in. Can you, like, fuck me with your fingertip?”  
  
“Like this?”  
  
“Yeah, uh-huh, just – faster.”  
  
“Jesus.” Eric starts humping Kyle's thigh and that feels good, too: the weight of a hard dick rubbing insistently against him. Kyle's cock stiffens again, but only a little.  
  
“God, that's so weird,” Kyle says, laughing low in his belly. “Weirdly good,” he says, to clarify. He peeks at Eric and laughs again at how enchanted he looks.  
  
“Would you ever let me--” Eric says, and he clears his throat, licks his lips. “Put my. In there?”  
  
“Suddenly you're too bashful to say the word cock?”  
  
“Fuh – well – would you, though?”  
  
“I don't know. Could you, um. Just like, rub the tip against it? Don't put it in, not even a little, but just, like. I want to feel it against me, just on the outside.”  
  
Eric nods frantically as he pulls himself from Kyle's side, hurrying to get between his legs again. Kyle's heart is pounding, and his cock fills in a dizzying rush of blood when Eric takes his finger out and pushes Kyle's thighs apart widely enough for him to kneel between them. It makes Kyle's joints ache like he's doing a yoga pose, but it feels good, too, and he locks eyes with Eric.  
  
“Please,” Kyle says, and he moans when he feels the fat, sticky head of Eric's dick pressing against his hole. “Fuck, yes, just – don't get carried away, please. Don't push in.”  
  
“I won't, Jesus! I'd never – like – never do something you didn't want. Seriously, that's the worst fucking thing you can do to someone.”  
  
Kyle moans sympathetically and nods, pressing down against Eric's cockhead. It's an intense, teasing, scary pleasure, and he's not surprised when Eric whines and comes. Being ejaculated upon like this is a little weird, and Kyle reaches for Eric, needing to be kissed. They both roll onto their sides to make out while Kyle humps Eric's stomach, his dick slipping up under the hem of Eric's rumpled t-shirt. He comes again when Eric reaches down to hold Kyle's dick against his belly fat, perfecting the friction.  
  
“Fuck,” Kyle breathes out, feeling like he's going to melt against the bedsheets. Eric is a boiling hot mess, too, Kyle's come all over his stomach. He's still holding Kyle's spent dick, stroking it with his thumb until Kyle whimpers and pulls away, too sensitive.  
  
“That was the best thing ever,” Eric says, scooting over to press his face to Kyle's cheek. Kyle is way too hot, panting, but he doesn't have the heart to move away from Eric's sweltering body heat. He cups Eric's cheek and nods drowsily, wanting to curl up someplace very cool and go to sleep.  
  
“It was awesome,” he says. “Thanks, just – thank you. You're awesome. This is so – I'm just really glad you're here.” He's not sure how else to articulate that he greatly appreciates being able to trust Eric to do the exact weird sex stuff he wants and nothing more. He peeks at Eric and grins at the sleepy and slightly bewildered look on his face.  
  
“I want to stay here forever,” Eric says.  
  
“Here in this sweaty bed?”  
  
“No – yes – I mean, like, at camp. I don't want to go home. It fucking sucks there, and you won't be there.”  
  
“Don't think about that yet,” Kyle says. He kisses Eric's face and smooths his sweaty hair down. “But I know. I'm already worried I'll get fat again as soon as go back.”  
  
“You won't. And me either. We're both gonna get super hot, right? My underwear are falling off already.”  
  
“I noticed. And yeah, you're right. This summer changes everything. I'm not going back to the way I was.”  
  
He's talking more about his shame over being gay than the fat that's melted off already and whatever else he'll manage to drop in the next two months. It's not going to be easy to go home and maintain this confidence that feels like it exists in the alternate reality of summer camp, but he has been changed, and having felt a dick press against his ass feels like a crude and yet important part of that transformation.  
  
After his first partial fingering experience Kyle is more comfortable with Eric, as if that particular awkward intimacy was an important step in the bonding process. Even outside of the bed it feels increasingly easy to be with Eric, who is starting to look actually and not just potentially handsome, either because there is less chub along his jawline or because Kyle is falling for him for real. He still looks forward to his injections with Stan ardently, but this enthusiasm doesn't feel like a betrayal of Eric, just like a hopelessly unrequited crush that only hurts when Stan smiles at him the way he sometimes does, like he thinks that Kyle is special, too.  
  
Two weeks into July, Kyle is walking to the nurse's station with Stan after his free hour to do an unplanned, late afternoon injection. He washed up well after rolling around with Eric in bed during their usual shenanigans, but he still has a whiff of sex on him and hopes it's not too noticeable. He glances at Stan, wondering if he would be able to detect the smell of Craig on Stan's skin, if Craig even has a sex smell. He seems naturally antiseptic.  
  
“What?” Stan says when he sees Kyle looking at him.  
  
“Nothing. How are you?”  
  
Stan laughs. “You've already seen me twice today.”  
  
“I know, but we didn't talk about how you are.”  
  
“Oh, right. You want the report? Well, I'm fine. I miss the ocean.”  
  
“Really? I don't miss the mountains at all. I bet I'd miss the ocean if I was used to it, though.”  
  
Kyle hears the buzz of an unfamiliar motor and looks away. Ahead on the path, a golf cart is coming toward them, driven by Kenny. Stan snorts and waves to him.  
  
“'Sup, guys?” Kenny says when he pulls up beside them.  
  
“Headed to the nurse's station for his shot,” Stan says. “Since when do they let you drive a golf cart?”  
  
“I found it out back near the old restaurant. Fixed it up myself, so I figure it's mine, at least as long as I'm here. You guys want a ride? Or a driving lesson, perhaps?” Kenny winks at Kyle, who would be slightly perturbed by this if Stan wasn't with him.  
  
“I'll take a driving lesson,” Kyle says, glancing at Stan. “If it's okay?”  
  
“Let's do your shot first. Then – I don't know, we'll see. Where are you supposed to be right now?”  
  
“Team building, but if I'm late we can just tell them I needed to sit for a while after my injection. Please?”  
  
“Please, Mr. Marsh?” Kenny says, grinning, and Kyle gets the same hot flush of pleasure he experiences anytime he hears Stan's last name, as if it's some secret and intimate nickname. It happens when someone calls Eric by his last name, too. There's something so appealing about the sweet but sturdy cadence of 'Marsh' and the authoritative weight of 'Cartman.' Kyle has never liked the arrhythmic disorder of his own last name.  
  
Kenny waits outside with the golf cart while Kyle takes his insulin. Stan seems a little nervous, pacing around until Kyle is finished.  
  
“I really should get you back to the main building,” Stan says. “For Wendy's leadership games, or whatever.”  
  
“I've never gotten to drive anything, though. My mom says go-karts at amusement parks are redneck deathtraps policed by inebriated teenagers. Please? It'll be fun. Unless, uh. Do you have someplace to be?” Kyle doesn't want to be left alone with Kenny, who isn't quite threatening but doesn't give Kyle the same feeling of cushy security that Stan does.  
  
“I'm free,” Stan says. He sighs and shakes his head. “You'll have to be careful, okay?”  
  
“I won't wreck the golf cart, I promise.”  
  
They head outside to meet Kenny, and when Stan slides into the backseat, Kyle sits beside him.  
  
"How are you gonna learn to drive from back there?" Kenny asks.  
  
"I'll move once we get to -- wherever we're going." Kyle is blushing now, annoyed with Kenny for calling him out for sticking to Stan's side and with himself for doing so without thinking. "Where are we going?" he asks when Kenny drives the cart away from the nurse's station.  
  
"The golf course," Kenny says. "Naturally."  
  
"Won't someone see us?"  
  
"Nah, it's the hottest part of the day. All the authorities are hiding in the air-conditioned shade. This is when me and Stan get up to no good!"  
  
"Ha," Stan says, staring at the back of Kenny's head.  
  
"After dark, he gets up to no good with other people."  
  
"Dude, shut up." Stan glances at Kyle and smiles warily. "He makes me sound like a bad guy."  
  
"I know you're not a bad guy," Kyle says, resisting the urge to touch Stan's hand, which is resting on the plastic-covered seat, beside Kyle's thigh.  
  
They reach the golf course and park near the old restaurant, where Kyle supposes Kenny is still living, though he doesn't see how that's humanly possible without some kind of temperature control. He slides out of the backseat and gets behind the wheel, gripping it nervously. His father has promised to start teaching him how to drive after this summer, and he's never had his foot on an actual accelerator, though he has operated a few arcade game cars.  
  
"Now," Kenny says, sitting beside Kyle. "Give it some gas, but gently. Use the same foot to operate the brake and the gas."  
  
"I know that part," Kyle says. He taps the gas, thinking of how intimidating it was to touch another boy's cock for the first time. This golf cart feels alive and potentially dangerous in a similar way, especially when it shoots forward with unexpected power.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, careful!" Kenny says, laughing. Kyle brakes hard and they all jerk forward.  
  
"Sorry," Kyle says.  
  
"Ease down on the gas," Stan says, scooting forward to fold his arms on the back of Kyle's seat. "Just let it roll really slow until you get a feel for how much power you've got."  
  
Kyle's cock responds to those instructions as if they were dirty words whispered into his ear, and he squeezes the steering wheel more tightly, attempting to reject the sudden haze of arousal. He wants to hear Stan say _really slow_ over and over again, gently like that. When he steadies himself enough to do as Stan instructed, he manages to inch the cart forward smoothly before giving it a little more gas.  
  
"There you go," Kenny says. "Drive over toward that flag on hole three."  
  
Kyle can't help laughing as the cart picks up speed and bounces along over the manicured grass. Kenny laughs, too, and Stan gives Kyle's shoulder an encouraging pat. When he drives faster the dry wind feels good on his cheeks, and he manages to stop laughing like an idiot but is still smiling so widely it hurts, even when he brakes too hard at times.  
  
"We should get you back to camp," Stan says after Kyle has been driving for five minutes or so.  
  
"This is a better leadership exercise than Wendy's games," Kyle says.  
  
"That's right," Kenny says. "Look at all the confidence we're inspiring in this young man."  
  
"You sound fucking creepy, dude," Stan says, but he's laughing, and he lets Kyle drive the cart around for a while longer before pointing him back toward camp.  
  
On the walk to the main building Kyle feels giddy from being treated like he was one of the guys, grown up enough to share another secret with Stan and Kenny. He arrives at the team building workshop as the games are winding down and sits against the wall, feigning diabetes-related weakness. When Eric notices him sitting on the sidelines he jogs over and sinks down onto his knees to give Kyle a concerned appraisal.  
  
"What's the deal?" Eric says. "You're sick?"  
  
"I'm fine." Kyle can't help but laugh at Eric's expression, which makes Eric frown more deeply. "Seriously, I'm just worn out. I took my time on the walk back."  
  
"Why are you smiling like that?"  
  
"I'm not. Am I?"  
  
Eric grunts and moves to sit with his back to the wall, beside Kyle. He presses his shoulder to Kyle's and seems not to care when Wendy gives them a disapproving look.  
  
"Did that counselor guy take care of you?" Eric asks after sitting in petulant silence for a few minutes.  
  
"You know his name."  
  
"Yeah, Stan the pathetic drunken hippie. Is he, like. Nice? When you're feeling sick?"  
  
"Of course he's nice! You've met him. He's super nice."  
  
"Super nice," Eric says, mimicking this. Kyle turns his cheek and rolls his eyes. Eric has been developing some Stan-related sensitivity, but it usually only manifests if Kyle spends too long in the nurse's station. "Do you guys, like, talk?" Eric asks, elbowing Kyle.  
  
"Yeah, sometimes. A little."  
  
"He seems kinda dim."  
  
"He's not." Kyle thinks of Stan's impressions of Eric, which essentially amount to a fear that he's bullying Kyle, though they haven't talked about this recently and it's possible Stan has finally decided to trust Kyle's feelings on the matter.  
  
"Well, he looks like a douchebag," Eric says.  
  
"Dude, whatever."  
  
"You're saying he doesn't look like a douchebag?"  
  
"He just looks like a normal guy!"  
  
Eric huffs as if Kyle has admitted that Stan is handsome. Kyle yawns and slumps against Eric's shoulder more completely, allowing the back of his hand to touch Eric's leg. They've gotten bold together behind the closed door of the cabin, but the subtle touches in public are a different kind of pleasure, partly secretive and partly a way to brag that they do other, actually secret things.  
  
"I don't like older guys," Eric says. "Do you?"  
  
"What, to date? I don't know. What are you even talking about? Did I miss anything fun in workshop?"  
  
"Eh, not really. Butters got hit in the face with a bean bag, that was pretty cool."  
  
Kyle laughs, and when Eric smiles at him he considers the discussion deftly avoided, but his heart is still beating hard. He's surprised by how guilty he feels, because it used to be kind of enjoyable when Eric got jealous of anybody who sat too close to Kyle.  
  
The routine established in Kyle's first month at camp continues without much alteration other than the looseness of his pants. He begins to not only linger in the bathroom after his showers to inspect his reflection in the mirror but also to pause and glance at any mirrored surface he passes, often genuinely surprised by what he sees. His hair is still an overgrown mess and his nose could be better, but for the first time in years he doesn't feel like a shapeless blob stuffed into human clothing. He's actually developing arm muscles from the extracurricular lifting he's done with Eric, and he's equally pleased when he notices that Eric is, too. Eric still has plenty of arm fat to spare, but beneath that his biceps have gotten firmer, and his stomach is less of an obstacle when Kyle straddles him in bed. Though he was optimistic about shedding some pounds, Kyle never actually suspected that either of them would 'get hot,' and he's startled when he begins to catch himself admiring the light freckles that have appeared under Eric's eyes and over the bridge of his nose, brought out by the sun. His time with Eric is beginning to feel less like a project or an experiment and more like an actual _thing_. It makes Kyle feel squirmy and embarrassed at random moments, but it's exciting, like a good dream that doesn't fade away when he pinches himself.  
  
The only part of camp that Kyle truly dreads are the weekly group therapy nights. He doesn't mind public speaking but still barely feels comfortable being honest about his feelings when he's alone with Mackey, and though he's friendly with the other kids he doesn't actually feel close to anyone but Eric. Even between the two of them there are still some walls up, and Kyle wants to hear Eric publicly confess his pain and vulnerabilities even less than he wants to do so himself. Fortunately, there seems to be little chance of that happening. Eric rarely speaks during group unless he's making some attempt at a witty remark to diffuse the tension, and he often seems to be struggling not to fall asleep. Mackey doesn't pressure Kyle to talk much when the others are around, and he can usually pass the hour trying to avoid eye contact and idly daydreaming about Eric, Stan, or both.  
  
The first unavoidably significant group therapy session happens in mid-July, on a hot, quiet night that feels just like all of the previous hot, quiet nights at camp have so far. At the start of the hour, Kyle isn't paying attention enough to see where things are heading. Henrietta is complaining about her shallow mother's obsession with conforming precisely to every social expectation placed upon her. Kyle has heard this before, and he only starts listening when Bebe, who is usually one of the quietest in the group, chimes in.  
  
"My mom takes it a step further," she says. She seems tired and almost like she's talking in her sleep, her eyes unfocused. She's lost at least ten pounds since the start of camp, her hour glass figure now less like that of a reclining beauty in an oil painting and more catalog-model standardized. It's not necessarily an improvement, but what does Kyle know about women and how they should look.  
  
"How do you mean?" Mackey asks when Bebe goes silent after saying that.  
  
"She thinks it's beneath us to be like everyone else," Bebe says. She seems to be gaining steam in a way that makes Kyle nervous; he hates it when people get worked up and cry during group. "We have to be the best. And I'm not talking about my grades. She doesn't care if I get B's. She just wants – she wants beautiful family photographs. When I gained weight last year, she didn't even care why. She just threw a Mackey Youth Center Brochure on my bed and told me to tell all my friends I'd be spending the summer with my dad in Toronto."  
  
"Your dad's Canadian?" Eric says. "I bet he's a hippie."  
  
"Eric, please." Mackey shoots him a look and Eric shrugs. "Bebe, you mentioned that your mother didn't care about the reason for your weight gain? Would you be comfortable sharing that reason with the group?"  
  
Bebe hooks her thumbs together and stares down at her hands. She doesn't blush – Kyle has noticed that about her, enviously – but her shoulders hunch when she's nervous or unhappy. She and Butters don't stand up to teasing, good natured or otherwise, as well as the rest of the group.  
  
"These rumors started about me," Bebe says. "At school. I don't know if it was girls or boys who started them, and by the end of the year I was starting to think it was a combination of both, girls who I thought were my friends and guys who I thought really liked me – respected me, I mean, but that turned out to be a joke. Everyone said that I'd slept with these three guys on the basketball team, like I'd done some kind of – orgy with them, and after that was a big hit they started a new one that I'd slept with this history teacher, too. I just felt so – fucking – defeated, like. What could I do? It was total bullshit, I've never slept with anyone, but they wanted to believe it all, so they did, and the ones who said to my face that they didn't believe the rumors were all laughing about it behind my back, I found out. So I just thought, fuck it. I work so hard to look perfect, to keep my hips from getting too wide, to keep my stomach flat – what's the point? My mom acts like a woman's greatest happiness lies in maintaining her looks, but it didn't work that way for me. It screwed me, if anything, because girls were jealous and guys who wanted me and weren't allowed access to me hated me for it. So I started eating everything I could get my hands on. I put on twenty pounds in two months. I felt worse, disgusting, because I saw the way my mom looked at me, but—"  
  
Bebe stops talking and lifts her head to look around the circle. Her shoulders curve in toward her chest a bit more, and she takes hold of her elbows.  
  
"Sorry," she says, and she fakes a pained little laugh. "I'm talking too much."  
  
"Bebe, please don't apologize," Mackey says. Kyle can't help but be annoyed by how glad he seems to have Bebe's personal problems out in the middle of the room for everyone to dissect. "This is something that I'm glad you brought up, and I admire and appreciate your honesty about how your mother's apparent lack of interest in the cause of your emotional eating has hurt you. I think it would be fair to say that everyone here would list their parents' attitudes as one of the causes of their weight issues and body image insecurities?"  
  
"Oh, sure!" Butters says loudly. He seems to want to rescue Bebe, whose eyes have started to water. "Gosh, until I came here I thought I had the best parents ever. I still love 'em, but man alive can they make me feel like a big, fat failure, and that only makes me want to eat more. Strange how that works."  
  
Butters knocks his fists together and glances at Bebe, who is dabbing at her eyes with her knuckles. Tammy drags her chair over to put a supportive arm around her, and Bebe smiles vaguely in appreciation, staring at the floor as tears start to roll down her cheeks. Kyle thinks the bullying at school is the more interesting angle here and doesn't appreciate Mackey trying to bring everything back to the issues that Kyle sort of shares with this girl. Mostly this is making him appreciate his mother's gentler approach to the subject of his weight problem.  
  
"Bebe, have you ever tried talking to you mother about how you feel?" Mackey asks. His voice is soft but Kyle finds the question harsh and uncalled for, considering Bebe's closed-off body language.  
  
"I—" she says. "I just feel like. Everyone in my life. Back home. Has been so cruel to me this year. And that's—" She breaks off there and cries onto Tammy's shoulder. Butters makes a sympathetic noise and reaches over to rub Bebe's knee.  
  
"Can I talk about my family issues a bit more, Mr. Mackey?" Butters says, raising his hand.  
  
"Well, sure, Butters." Mackey sounds disappointed; Butters talks a lot during these sessions, more than Henrietta and Rebecca combined. "What would you like to discuss in particular?"  
  
"I was thinking about how we talked about me sometimes not liking myself too much? And that's on account of my parents being tough on me, which is true, but I think it might also be 'cause of how my uncle made me feel when he messed with me that time."  
  
"Messed – messed with you?"  
  
"Yeah, like we talked about! Remember, he—"  
  
"Sure, Butters, of course I remember." Mackey sits up straight, resting his notebook on his knees. "I just, ah. I wasn't sure you'd want to talk about that with the group."  
  
"I know." Butters sighs and looks over at Bebe, who gives him a shaky smile. "But me and Bebe were talking about this, and I think it's a kind of step forward if I can talk about it without being ashamed, because it sure wasn't my fault."  
  
"I'm confused," Clyde says. "What did your uncle do?"  
  
"He, uh." Butters glances at Bebe again. Kyle's heart has started beating faster; he really doesn't want to hear this, but he supposes that's unfair, if Butters needs to say it. "Well, I won't get into specifics," Butters says. "But he did some sexual stuff to me when I was a kid. I didn't even know what was going on, and when I figured it out later I thought, I don't know. That it made me messed up and bad in some way, but now I know it's him who was messed up and bad, and I'm not half as bad as I thought I was."  
  
"That's really admirable, Butters," Mackey says. "You've done some amazing self-realization work so far at camp this summer."  
  
"I have sort of an academic question about this," Rebecca says. "I hope you won't find it insensitive or feel like you have to answer."  
  
Kyle glances over at Eric, increasingly uncomfortable. This is the kind of tense discussion that he'd normally be trying to cannonball into with an inane comment that would derail things, but he's gone silent and sort of glassy-eyed. He looks pale, but maybe it's only the bad florescent lighting.  
  
"Are you comfortable with the term survivor?" Rebecca asks, speaking to Butters. "Or is that akin to defining yourself based on one bad experience? I've always wondered, if you're willing to talk about it."  
  
"Well, gosh, I don't know," Butters says. "A survivor sounds like a strong person, so that'd be okay if someone called me that. I was so young that it kinda feels like it happened to somebody else. But then then the smallest, most out of the blue thing will make me think of it and start to feel all weird and different."  
  
"Did you ever confront your uncle?" Henrietta asks.  
  
"No, but I told my mom about what happened and she threatened to cut off his wiener if he ever came near me again."  
  
"What's the statute of limitations on prosecuting someone for sexual misconduct with a minor?" Rebecca asks, as if she's going to take on the case herself. Kyle is tempted to tell her that she's missing the point, though he'd really like to stay out of this discussion. Before he can decide whether to speak, Eric's chair makes a noisy sliding sound against the floor. Kyle turns to see Eric leaving the circle, heading for the door.  
  
"Eric?" Mackey says. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Bathroom," Eric says, and he leaves. Kyle feels his face heating in an incriminating way and turns back toward the group with trepidation. Bebe and Tammy are giving him questioning looks, as if he should explain this.  
  
"I once saw a guy masturbating in a library," Clyde says. "He looked right at me."  
  
"Oh geez!" Butters says. "I didn't know that, Clyde."  
  
"Well, I've never told anyone."  
  
"Um, hello, what?" Henrietta says. "That's disturbing and shit, but you really can't compare it to being abused by a family member."  
  
Kyle zones out during the discussion that follows, preoccupied by Eric's sudden exit and continuing absence. Five minutes pass, then ten, and Kyle can see that Mackey is also concerned about Eric's whereabouts when their eyes meet. Kyle raises his hand, interrupting Rebecca and Henrietta's increasingly impassioned debate on post-traumatic stress disorder.  
  
"Can I go check on Eric?" Kyle asks. "I think he might be sick or something."  
  
"Mhmm, yeah, I think that's a good idea." Mackey glances at the doorway and sighs. "Guys, can we rein it in a little?" he asks as Kyle heads away from the circle. "I think we're sort of steamrolling the emotional issues here with moot theoretical dialogue, mmkay?"  
  
Kyle checks the boys' bathroom and isn't surprised when he doesn't find Eric there. He walks the halls of the main building nervously, wanting to discover Eric and comfort him if needed but also afraid to find him in a sodden puddle of tears. It would ruin something, maybe, though he doesn't want Eric to be alone with whatever he's going through. He pauses when he hears Eric's voice, muffled, from the end of the hall. He's not sobbing, but he doesn't sound particularly composed. Kyle turns a corner and sees the side exit door propped open and exposed the the desert night, which looks like a blank black wall against the glow from the building's interior. Eric is sitting with his back to the door, on the cement stairs near the dumpsters where they threw away his candy. There's an outdoor light glowing over his huge, hunched frame, and Wendy is sitting beside him, speaking to him softly, her arm tucked around Eric's back. Despite their almost comical size difference, she seems like the larger of the two of them, a kind of grown-up force field that has wrapped protectively around him while he sniffles and mumbles and swipes the heel of his hand across his eyes.  
  
Creeping away as quietly as he can, Kyle feels both jealous and relieved. Wendy is more qualified for this particular breakdown, and Kyle is off the hook, but he wants to help Eric, too, later, if he can. He also wants to find Stan and again be whisked away to the peaceful seclusion of his private room, to just sit there in silence rather than go back and listen to the group's further thoughts on victims of sexual abuse and how they should feel about what happened to them. He realizes that this longing for Stan isn't entirely spontaneous when he recognizes Stan's voice in the distance, coming from behind a half-closed door: Craig's office.  
  
Kyle freezes, then moves toward the wall. He can hear the smug clip of Craig's voice, too, and he presses himself to the wall, wanting to have at least some idea of how things actually function between these two, beyond the laundry machines. If they catch him, he can tell them that Mackey gave him permission to search the building for Eric, and Mackey can corroborate his story if necessary.  
  
"I'm sure you fit right in with that crowd," Craig is saying when Kyle scales back his anxious excitement enough to actually listen.  
  
"They're pretty cool," Stan says. "What?" he says when Craig scoffs. "Like you know all about bikers."  
  
"One look at those people is enough to tell me everything, so, yes."  
  
"Oh, yeah, you figure everybody out at first glance." Stan pauses, and Craig makes no rebuttal. "What did you think about me the first time you saw me?"  
  
"Hmmm. Well, I had you pegged, didn't I?"  
  
"Pegged?" Stan sounds less amused now.  
  
"As someone who needed -- guidance. Oh, don't look at me like that. You're adorable. I thought you looked like a closeted, unsure, beautiful college boy and that I wanted to sleep with you as soon and as much as possible. Is that what you want to hear?"  
  
"You're an asshole."  
  
"I'm not, I'm being honest. Come here."  
  
"Fuck you, there are still people in the building."  
  
"I'm not asking you to crawl over here on your knees, Stanley, I just want to give you a hug. You get so upset over nothing."  
  
"It's not nothing when you tell me I'm obvious. Like I'm in gay heat or something, Jesus Christ. I don't want people knowing."  
  
"Knowing that you're gay, or knowing that you've been sexually frustrated for so long that you vibrate like a metal detector when a willing dick strolls by?"  
  
"Okay, yeah, it's all a big joke to you. You're such a sympathetic gay guidance counselor, good job."  
  
"I'm not your gay guidance counselor, good grief. I'm just teasing you. Come here and let me tell you how I really feel. I don't want to shout it across the room."  
  
Kyle can hear his heart thudding like a car alarm that he's attempting to ignore as he listens to Stan take a few shuffling steps inside the office. He should go now; Mackey will be wondering about him, and it's disrespectful to Stan to eavesdrop like this. He glances down the hallway to make sure Wendy and Eric aren't approaching. There's a creaking sound from inside Craig's office, like a chair bearing too much weight.  
  
"You're so sweet," Craig says, murmuring this quietly. Kyle can barely hear now, but he can't seem to make himself leave. "I was so angry when I was your age."  
  
"I'm angry," Stan says, mumbling. There's a sort of soft clicking sound, and Kyle feels like someone has thrown a spear through his chest when he realizes they're kissing. He recognizes Stan's sigh, and when the chair creaks again he pictures Stan sitting in Craig's lap, letting Craig stroke his cheek. Rage flushes through him in a miserable heatwave, but before he can get really worked up a kind of resigned sadness snuffs the flames. Of course Stan is kissing Craig; Kyle has seen them doing more with his own eyes. It sucks, and Craig is not worthy, but Kyle has no right to get mad at either of them about this. He moves away from the wall and stops when he hears Craig speak again.  
  
"Don't go to that stupid bar tonight," Craig says. "And let that idiot Kenny entertain himself. Stay over with me."  
  
"It's too -- I don't want Wendy to find out." Stan's voice sounds different now, apologetic and soft, and Kyle doesn't like it.  
  
"You've got to come out to your friends sometime," Craig says. "You're not a lifelong closet case."  
  
"I know, but -- it's -- she got me this job, and if Mackey found out--"  
  
"You're an adult, Stan. Act like one. I'll admit this arrangement is slightly unprofessional, but more on my behalf than yours. You're not breaking any rules. Don't worry. Just let me take care of you. You need taking care of, don't you?"  
  
Stan grunts as if he's annoyed by this, but then they're kissing again, more fervently by the sound of it. Kyle creeps away feeling ill with a combination of irrational anger, unwanted arousal and knifing jealousy that's all churning together in his stomach. He returns to the group therapy room and is surprised to see Eric seated in the circle again, looking tired. Wendy is sitting on a card table against the back wall, taking notes while Tammy talks about her recurring dreams of regaining the weight she's lost. Kyle sits beside Eric and is worried when Eric won't look at him. He tunes out Tammy's voice and tries to imagine what the rest of Stan's evening will be like. He'll go back to Craig's place, probably. They'll drink wine. Maybe Craig will light a fire. He probably has some stupid gas fireplace that comes on with the push of a button. Kyle glances over at Eric again, wanting him to look back. Eric doesn't seem like he's been crying, but he doesn't look happy at all, his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set in a hard line as he stares intently at the floorspace in the center of the circle.  
  
When Mackey dismisses the group they all walk back to the cabins together, chaperoned by Wendy, who is chatting with Tammy about pre-sleep relaxation methods. Eric walks beside Kyle but doesn't say anything, and Kyle isn't sure where to start.  
  
"That whole therapy session was fucked up," Henrietta mutters, and Kyle turns back toward her, surprised that she's speaking to him. She usually ignores him based on his affiliation with Eric, who she still despises.  
  
"It was--" Kyle isn't sure what he should say, with Eric listening. "A little weird, yeah."  
  
"Is Clyde straight up retarded?" Henrietta asks, not even bothering to whisper. "A homeless guy grabbed my boob on a bus once, but I'm not going to like, compare that to some kid getting molested by his--"  
  
"Can we fucking stop talking about it already?" Eric says, so loudly that everyone in the group goes quiet. "Jesus Christ," he mumbles after he's glared at Henrietta. "If I have to hear any more therapy talk tonight I'm gonna slit my fucking wrists."  
  
"Dramatic much?" Henrietta says.  
  
"Guys," Wendy calls from ahead on the path. "Chill."  
  
Kyle wants to take Eric's hand, but maybe that would be too conspicuous. He doesn't want the other kids to guess why Eric is upset, though maybe it's a stretch to think that they would. When they reach the cabins he wishes the girls a listless goodnight while Butters takes a turn hugging each of them. Even Henrietta allows him to hug her, which is a first. Inside the cabin, Kyle sits on his bed to take off his shoes and socks, keeping the corner of his eye on Eric, who heads directly into the bathroom. Kyle hears the shower come on, which is weird, because Eric already showered after their evening workout.  
  
"What's his problem?" Clyde asks.  
  
"He hates group," Kyle says. "Don't you?"  
  
"No. I like group."  
  
"Me too!" Butters says. "It's kinda a lot to take in sometimes, but I always feel better after."  
  
"Well, good for you two. Seriously, though, uh." Kyle glances up from his dirty socks to look at Butters, who is pulling off his t-shirt. He's getting pretty fit, and Kyle is jealous, his chest suddenly feeling very saggy. "I'm glad you're feeling better -- about everything," Kyle says when Butters meets his eyes. Butters grins and itches his left nipple in a way that Kyle finds slightly disgusting, though he generally enjoys male nipples.  
  
"This is just a real special place," Butters says. "I only thought I'd be learning how to not be so chunky, but I think the other stuff's more important, you know what I mean?"  
  
"Sure." Kyle pulls off his track pants and tosses them in the cabin's communal hamper. Sometimes he thinks about the fact that Stan washes his dirty boxer shorts, and he both loves and hates the idea. Poor Stan, in the hands of Craig, lured back to Craig's lair, being told that he needs taking care of. It's true, probably, but Kyle feels like he could do a better job, even at age fifteen, than creepy old Craig. He hears the shower shut off and looks toward the bathroom door. "I'm gonna brush my teeth," Kyle says, though Clyde and Butters are both preoccupied with dressing for bed and probably know why he's really going into the bathroom, anyway.  
  
The bathroom is full of steam, as if Eric's brief shower was very hot. He's still behind the shower curtain, but doesn't seem alarmed at the sound of the door opening and closing. He must have guessed who has entered.  
  
"Can I come in?" Kyle asks.  
  
"Uh, you're already in. You can't come in the shower, if that's what you're asking. I'm fucking naked, Jesus."  
  
"Eric, I--" Kyle stops himself from protesting that he's come in Eric's mouth, thereby making nudity sort of a technicality. "Alright. I, uh. Respect your boundaries, I do. You want me to get out?"  
  
"No. Just. Give me my shirt. It's there on the counter."  
  
"I see it." Kyle passes Eric's t-shirt around the edge of the shower curtain. "Do you need a towel?"  
  
"I've got one. What are you doing? Did you want to have shower sex or something? Because I'm not into that. The shower is a man's solitary sanctuary."  
  
"Fine -- no, I just. Felt like talking, sort of, but not in front of Butters and--"  
  
"Well, I don't feel like talking. I've had it with goddamn talking. Like talking about your bullshit in front of a bunch of assholes is some magic spell that makes everything better? Yeah, no, that's stupid. Fuck talking, and fuck Butters and his fucking superiority complex."  
  
"That's not--"  
  
"Whatever, shut up."  
  
"Okay!" Kyle is annoyed by that particular command but glad that Eric is talking to him, even if he's only willing to talk about how he doesn't want to talk. Eric steps out from behind the shower curtain wearing his t-shirt and holding a towel around his waist. He stares at Kyle, looking vaguely defiant but also kind of broken. Kyle is beginning to feel damp from all the steam in the room. "Can I hug you?" he asks, and Eric snorts.  
  
"What kind of stupid question is that?"  
  
Eric steps forward and grabs hold of Kyle, pulling him to his humid, t-shirt covered chest and hugging him hard. Kyle squeezes Eric with equal vigor, relieved. The towel falls away from Eric's waist and sort of hangs between them, trapped there. Eric is breathing a little heavily, his nose buried in Kyle's curls. He smells good, feels good, and Kyle leans up onto his tiptoes to press his face to Eric's neck, which is not as pillowy as it was the first time Kyle nuzzled him there.  
  
"You're losing some weight," Kyle says. He can actually net his fingers together on Eric's back, almost.  
  
"Yeah, no crap, that's kind of the point."  
  
"I mean you fit. In my arms." Kyle laughs at how stupid that sounded and kisses Eric's neck.  
  
"That's pretty cool, I guess," Eric says. "And super gay."  
  
"Fine, I'm super gay. I'm the gayest gay in gayville, I don't care."  
  
"Your Jew fro is pretty out of control here," Eric says, rubbing his face there like he wants to burrow into Kyle's hair for the night.  
  
"Don't call it a Jew fro." Kyle calls it that himself, and so does Ike, but that's different.  
  
"Sorry, Jesus. I meant that, like, affectionately."  
  
They kiss until Kyle starts to worry about Butters and Clyde hearing their kissing noises the way Kyle listened to Stan and Craig's. He reaches down to re-wrap the towel around Eric's waist as he pulls away.  
  
"I went to look for you," Kyle says. "During group, when you were gone."  
  
"Yeah, well. I ran into that Wendy chick. She's not that bad when she's not, like, telling me to do some yoga move that squishes my balls."  
  
"She -- you guys talked?"  
  
"A little." Eric grins, and Kyle knows what's coming. "Are you jealous?"  
  
Kyle rolls his eyes and leaves the bathroom without responding, because yeah, he is, but he's not exactly worried that Eric is going to leave him for Wendy, and he's glad she was there for him when he needed an authoritative arm around his shoulders. Out in the cabin, the lights are out and Clyde and Butters are either asleep or faking it. Kyle climbs into his bed and rolls over to look at Eric, who flashes Kyle a glimpse of his dick before pulling on a pair of clean boxer shorts. Kyle snorts and tugs his blankets up to his ear. The air conditioning is blasting, the interior of the cabin settling into cold-mode for the night. Kyle expects to sleep well, though when he closes his eyes he can't stop envisioning Stan on Craig's living room floor, naked and stretched out in front of a lame gas fireplace, being fed grapes or some dumb shit, not getting the taking-care-of that he really needs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters continue to take much longer than I expect, so I won't assume that will change when it comes to the two that remain after this (including the epilogue). Thanks to all who are still reading - please let me know if you have comments or questions!

Toward the end of July, Eric fills Kyle in on Operation Cheese Dip, and at first it mostly seems like a joke. So much has happened since they initially talked about sneaking out and going to the Mexican restaurant in town, and Kyle had never really believed it was a serious plan and not just Eric boasting, attempting to impress him. He's surprised, therefore, when Eric digs out his Mackey Youth Center personal diary and shows Kyle the extensive plans he's composed there.

"We're supposed to write our innermost feelings here," Kyle says. He hasn't done so in his own diary, though he has been using it to make notes about how much he can lift and how far he can run as both numbers slowly but steadily increase.

"I am," Eric says, pointing to the intricate map of camp that he's drawn up and labeled in boyish penmanship that Kyle finds adorable. "My innermost thought is that the best time to sneak out and eat some delicious cheese dip and salsa with endless baskets of chips will be this Sunday, during the counselors' staff meeting."

"Eric, I don't think--"

"Don't 'Eric, I don't think' me, Kyle. This is the one thing you don't get veto power on. I'm taking you on a date and we're eating real food. Period."

Kyle snorts, flushing with secret glee at Eric's determination to wine and dine him over a basket of fried tortilla chips. He flips through the pages of the diary, hoping to come across some passages about him, or at least about the sex they've been having, or maybe a page full of Mr. Eric Broflovski cursive signatures, but there's only page after page of notes about the counselor's schedules and routines.

"This is sort of diabolical," Kyle says, impressed, though he's worried that Eric's notes on Stan's whereabouts mean he might have spied on Stan and Kyle together once or twice.

"I want to join the Air Force and be a double agent who spies for America," Eric says, and Kyle laughs, because that's the first he's heard of this plan, but when he looks up from the diary Eric seems serious. "What?" he says, frowning. "You don't think I can? I'm crafty, Kyle. Did I not get you into bed in less than a week?"

"Not to undersell myself, but I'm not sure seducing me means you're qualified to spy internationally for the military. But that's an awesome goal to have, actually. I do think you could get into the Air Force Academy. It's, um. In Colorado, not too far from where I live."

"I know." Eric reaches over and hooks his pinkie finger around Kyle's. They're lying beside each other in Eric's bed, still overheated and undressed after their first orgasmic emissions of the day. Eric is wearing only his t-shirt, his spent cock flopped onto his thigh, and Kyle is naked under the bed sheet, hot but still unwilling to be completely exposed when they're not in the act. Kyle made Eric wash his hands thoroughly after he'd worked two fingers into Kyle's ass, so he has no qualms about hand-holding. "I was going to join the Navy," Eric says. "Because, you know, gay sex on boats, but now I'm thinking Air Force."

"Because -- gay sex on planes?" Kyle says. Eric huffs.

"No. Gay -- things -- with you -- maybe. I think they're pretty strict about leaving campus and having visitors freshman year, but I figure if you join as a freshman the year after me, I'll be in, like, a position of authority over you, and I can be all like 'ey, cadet, come shine my boots!' and then we could have sex in a broom closet or something."

Kyle isn't even sure how to begin to parse all the elements of that monologue. He sits up on his elbow and kisses Eric's cheeks, charmed by his sudden plans for their Air Force Academy future, if also slightly alarmed by how determined he sounds. If the secret planning notebook for Operation Cheese Dip is any indication, he's not easily dissuaded once he gets his heart set on some insane idea.

"Honestly, I can't see myself in the Air Force," Kyle says. "I want to go to college in California." He's had this fantasy since meeting Stan and picturing him on a surf board. "Near the ocean."

"Oh."

"But who knows, I mean, anything could happen! I think the Air Force Academy has great engineering programs. They send recruiters to my high school every year for career day. They seem pretty cool, I mean, they're usually these hot guys." Kyle hears himself rambling and stops. He touches Eric's jaw, turning his face until Kyle can see his freckles in the muted light through the curtains. "I've been there," he says, more quietly. "On a tour, in middle school. Already I was thinking about how it would be to have a roommate who might want to kiss me in secret, in our bunk at night."

"Kind of like now," Eric says. He's smiling a little, at the specter of Kyle's boyhood yearning for the kind of twin bed cuddling they're doing now.

"Exactly. It's like a dream come true, really. With being forced to get in shape and everything. Air Force Academy Lite."

They kiss some more, and Kyle starts to get hard again when Eric pushes the sheet away and reaches down to squeeze his ass. Their ejaculation record for one afternoon free hour was four times each, which was kind of painful by the end, both of their cocks slightly chafed and only spurting weakly. Three is nice but two is ideal, Kyle finds, because that leaves time for talking and idle kissing, and sometimes a light nap. He's always loved the feeling of falling right to sleep after a good, tiring orgasm, and doing so with the person who brought him off beside him is ten times better.

"Why do you want to spy for the U.S.?" Kyle asks after they've both gone off a second time. "You don't strike me as particularly patriotic."

"It's not that. But I am! I like this country. Mostly 'cause everyplace else is worse, either poor as shit or full of hippies. I just think it would be cool, like. Convincing some dumbass enemies of the state that I'm selling them secrets, only to turn around and be like, 'joke's on you, motherfuckers, I was a good guy all along.'"

"Aw," Kyle says, stroking Eric's cheek. Eric frowns.

"It's not cute, Kyle. It's fucking bad ass."

"Okay. What if they sent you to war, though? Wouldn't you have to do basic combat stuff before you were hired as a super spy?"

"Yeah, but I'd be up in a plane, so who cares?"

"They shoot at planes, Eric. And they might stick you in a helicopter. Seems like those are always crashing."

"As if I'd end up in some pussy helicopter. Nah, I'd be flying, like, an ... F ... two, or whatever they call them. I need to do some research. Sucks not having the internet."

"I haven't missed it as much as I thought I would," Kyle says, and he hooks his leg around Eric's side, which is now possible without major discomfort, though still quite a stretch. "This is better than looking at porn, after all," he says.

Over the past two months Kyle has begun to feel like he's living in the real world, whereas previously he was in some kind of pre-reality cave, confined to his bedroom and various classrooms, the family dinner table and the couch in front of the living room TV. Actual things seemed to happen to other people, and to characters in movies and novels, whereas Kyle was in a non-person stasis, holding onto to the vague hope that someday his life would involve actual 'events' and 'friends' and maybe even the outlandish concept of a 'boyfriend' if his fate changed dramatically enough.

Now every color he encounters seems brighter, and his body feels different, less like a bloated burden carting his mind around and more like something he actually owns. The daily exercise is a big part of this, but so is the sex, and his sudden ability to be physically, actively gay and not feel bad about it at all. He knows he has Eric to credit for that, for saying on day one that he wanted to suck some dick as if it was his favorite flavor of ice cream. Kyle is increasingly grateful for this, and at moments he catches himself imagining what it would be like if he did join the Air Force Academy. What if he and Eric were cadets who had hot, uniformed sex in secret corners of that place that had vaguely aroused Kyle at thirteen? The campus had seemed like the well-fortified compound of polished, serious boys who were on the verge of being men, and the dorms Kyle's class had toured resembled the sets of the cheaply made porn movies he'd watched online, everything sort of dated and cramped in a lurid and mysterious way. He knows it's ridiculous, that the last thing he'd enjoy is a military education, but it's still fun to fantasize about, and he's a bit worried that Eric is thinking along those lines more seriously.

"Have you ever thought about joining the military?" Kyle asks Stan one evening after his injection, needing his opinion on this and all matters.

"No," Stan says. He seems perturbed by Kyle's question, lingering with the syringe in his hand and frowning a little. "Why -- have you?"

"Not really, but this whole experience has made me wonder if it would be good for me."

"This whole experience?"

"Like, having rigid order, strict meal times and required physical exercise, structure, all that."

"It's different," Stan says, looking queasy, as if picturing Kyle in a military uniform is unappetizing, or upsetting. "Mackey lets you older kids have your own space every day. It's not like that in the military. The establishment crowds into every aspect of your life."

"How do you know?"

"It's just -- a known thing! And you might have to go to war and kill people."

"Not if I became an officer and got some desk job. No, but, never mind. Forget it."

"I mean, I know where you're coming from," Stan says when he goes to put Kyle's supplies away. "Sometimes I think it would be nice to just have someone tell me what to do all the time."

Kyle thinks of Craig telling Stan to _Come here_ and prompting him to admit that he needs taking care of. The thought of Stan being controlled by someone like that isn't a good one, and he seems kind of stifled already, corralled into a post-childhood but pre-adulthood space that Wendy and Token don't seem to occupy. Kyle hops down from examining table and heads for the door.

"Hold up, I'll walk with you," Stan says. He's writing in his notebook, marking down the amount of insulin Kyle just injected. Kyle knows he should leave now or risk saying something dumb about Stan's last comment, but of course he waits.

"You're right," Kyle says when they're walking the main building, where Kyle will have dinner and Stan will perhaps do the laundry, hopefully without company. "I don't think I'd like being in the military, being told what to do all the time, what to think and how to feel about my superiors. God, actually – that basically sounds like my worst nightmare."

"Exactly," Stan says, and he seems pleased. "People in power who tell you not to question their command? That leads to all sorts of bad shit."

"Yeah, and I like being the one giving orders, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do." Stan gives Kyle a look like he's wondering if he should be amused or disturbed by this remark.

"In a relationship," Kyle says more quietly, his heart starting to beat faster. Stan studies him for a minute, incredulous, then looks away.

"Ohh," he says. "I see. Mhm. How's your relationship going?"

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not! I'm really not, Kyle. Actually, you seem happy. So it's none of my business."

"I seem happy?" Kyle grins, realizing he's never been paid that particular compliment before. He's not sure it is a compliment, technically, but it feels even better than that, like a medal that he's won. "Well. I am happy."

"Good. And you're -- I can tell you're working really hard. You were awesome at pull ups the other day."

"I could barely do five!"

"Well, you couldn't do any at the start of camp. It doesn't matter how many pull ups you can do, it just cool to see you guys finding out that you can do all kinds of stuff that you thought you couldn't. Like, look. You're fifteen and super smart. The world is yours for the taking."

"You're nineteen and super hot," Kyle says without thinking. He blushes and shrugs as if that was a mild, objective observation. "So, uh. It's yours for taking, too."

"I'm not super hot." Stan seems unaffected by the comment, but he's looking ahead at the path, not at Kyle. "And even if I was, I'd rather be smart. Like Craig. Guys like that know how to get what they want. They don't have to hope people will think they're hot. Shit, sorry." He looks at Kyle then, but only briefly. "Sometimes I forget you're not, like, my friend who's my age."

"Ha." Kyle wants to shout that Stan is actually much smarter than Craig, that he's sure of it, and that Craig is only getting what he wants because Stan is so meekly giving it to him, but that would hurt Stan's feelings and it might not be true. "You can talk to me that way," he says. "If you want. Like we're friends."

"Well, we are friends." Stan moves closer and elbows him. "Obviously. But sometimes I just feel like such a stunted shithead for being honest with you and not with Wendy."

"It's only because I saw you in the laundry room that time."

"It's not only because of that, Kyle. I don't know what it's 'because of.' I guess you're my first gay friend, and that means a lot. Thanks for not telling anyone about me."

"Of course I haven't! I know what it's like. I'm not going to out someone before they're ready. And anyway, what -- wasn't Craig your first gay friend?"

Stan snorts. "He was plenty of first gay things for me, but not that. Nah, you're different. This is lame, but, like. You know the real me."

"So who does Craig know?"

"This kind of clueless surfer kid who's trying to act mature, I guess."

Kyle considers what he overheard in Craig's office, not sure this is true, though also not surprised that it's the impression Stan has based on the way Craig talks to him. He elbows Stan and grins when Stan shoulders him. Kyle pushes back, laughing as they begin to try to earnestly shove each other off the path.

"No horseplay," Stan says, still pushing against Kyle's attempts to unsteady him. He's laughing until Kyle trips for real and stumbles into the sand, headed for a prickly-looking sage bush. Stan catches him by the arm and pulls him upright. Kyle is mortified by his immediate and intense arousal: he felt it, just then, how strong Stan is. He lifted Kyle's weight with one arm, easy. "Sorry," Stan says, and he gives Kyle two hard pats on the back. "That was stupid."

"Fuck Craig," Kyle says, and Stan laughs, then gives him a confused look.

"Wait, what? He's not that bad, I just -- you're the only person I can vent to. Do you ever want to vent about, ah. Eric?"

"Uhh, maybe?"

"Okay, well. I'm sorry I was judgmental before. I see the way that kid looks at you during workouts. It's not just predatory. He's all lovestruck."

"Sure." Kyle snorts as if he hasn't noticed this, too. "Does Craig ever look at you that way?"

"You tell me."

"I never see you two together!"

"I think Craig probably looks at my ass that way. Not me, though, person-wise."

"I don't know," Kyle says, remembering the way Craig's voice had softened when Stan moved closer to him in his office. "He's probably just holding back a little because he can't believe he gets to have someone like you."

Kyle hears what he's said and stops walking, ten feet from the building's front doors. He can feel Stan sensing the seriousness of that statement, and he doesn't know where to look or what to say.

"That's--" Stan says when Kyle has been silent for a few long seconds, getting increasingly red. "That's really nice of you to say--"

"See ya!" Kyle says, and he sprints for the door, feeling twelve years old and horribly transparent.

He collects his tray from Kenny in mortified silence, mumbling a nebulous response when Kenny asks to be informed if the broccoli is too soggy. Eric has saved him a seat, as always, and Kyle falls into it without looking at anyone, not wanting them to notice his glaring red cheeks.

"You got sunburned," Rebecca says, of course.

"I -- yeah." Kyle tears into his black bean burger with salsa and no cheese, served on a whole wheat bun. It's become one of his favorite meals. "Did Eric tell you guys about our plan?" he asks before he's swallowed, desperate to change the subject.

"Ey, c'mon," Eric says, elbowing him. It makes Kyle think of Stan, and the heat on his cheeks renews. "That's our thing, me and you."

"Oh, is this the Mexican restaurant?" Clyde says. "I want to come."

"Clyde, what the fuck?" Eric throws the last of his own burger down. "Have you been reading my diary?"

"You have a diary?" Henrietta says, laughing.

"It's not a diary, it's a fucking top secret mission book, and apparently Clyde thinks he's welcome to put his hands on my shit."

"I do not! We all talked about this back at the start of camp. I've been looking forward to it."

"He's right, Eric," Kyle says. "We discussed this publicly, so I think everyone is welcome to come."

"But--" Eric says, looking hurt. "It was supposed to be us, our--"

"If we get caught with four or five others," Kyle says, leaning over to whisper this very softly into Eric's ear. As usual, this tactic makes Eric melt against him, his shoulders relaxing. "We'll be less likely to get thrown out of camp."

"We're not gonna get caught," Eric says, muttering, but his cheeks are pink and he's giving Kyle his slavish love stare. "But -- fucking -- fine, we can accommodate two or three others. We'll probably need help with some of the plan elements, anyway."

"Like what?" Rebecca asks. "I'd like to come. How can I help?"

Kyle tunes out most of the discussion that follows, replaying the walk from the nurse's station in his mind. It was bad enough that he described Stan as 'hot,' but what he said about Craig probably being in awe of Stan's general amazingness was downright obvious. He supposes it doesn't matter if Stan knows that he has a crush on him. He's long assumed that Stan must have guessed, or at least that he suspects it from time to time. But there's something about his near admission that's bothering him anyway.

On Sunday, Operation Cheese Dip goes into effect a few minutes after noon, as soon as the counselors' meeting begins. Henrietta has joined Clyde and Rebecca as a member of the 'team,' and while Tammy waffled for a while she ultimately elected to stay behind with Butters and Bebe. There is no gate surrounding the camp, so there's nothing to break out of precisely, but the town within the valley is very small and entirely open, with one main road that leads into the small strip of stores that comprise the town. The Mexican restaurant is across from the gas station and the biker bar, part of a dated and dusty development that includes a grocery store, a laundromat, and a few abandoned store fronts. As they approach the front entrance to the camp at the designated time, Kyle begins to feel very nervous. There's no way someone won't spot them as they walk along the open road outside camp, and though they've lost weight it would be obvious to anyone remotely familiar with the town residents that they are escapees from the fat kid camp.

"Shouldn't we split up?" Kyle asks when they're all crouching behind the stucco MACKEY YOUTH CENTER sign out front, making sure that the coast is clear. "Aren't we more conspicuous in a group?"

"You'd think so, normally," Eric says. "But since we're three boys and two girls, I've determined based on sociological reasoning that we're the least likely to attract unwanted attention, once we're clear of the view from camp, if we all stick together."

"Goodness," Rebecca says, smiling a little. "I can't wait to hear why."

"The reason," Eric says, and he gives her a withering look, "Is that if we split up into two groups, no matter how you slice it you're going to end up with a group of three boys, a group of two girls with a boy, or a group with one girl and two boys."

"There are other potential combinations--" Rebecca starts to say, but Eric speaks over her.

"Three boys," he says, loudly, "Looks suspicious because, c'mon. Three teenage boys wandering around together? One of them a muscular manbeast who appears to be the ringleader?" He points his thumb at himself, as if anyone doubted that was who he was referring to. "Obviously we'd look like a gang that's up to no good. Now if you have two girls and a guy, what the average passerby will assume is that the girls are being stalked and in danger of being raped. One girl and two guys, we're talking gang rape."

"Jesus Christ," Clyde says. "Nobody thinks like that."

"Clyde, okay? They do, actually, but if we're a group of five kids with a relatively equal gender spread they'll just be like, oh, some kids, they're probably going swimming, those three nice boys are escorting those girls so they don't get raped by bikers, et cetera."

"Can we just go?" Henrietta says. "It's fucking hot and I can't stand listening to him talk."

"Maybe you're uninvited, then!" Eric says, but he calms down when Kyle places a hand on his shoulder.

"We should get going," Kyle says. "The counselor meeting has been in session for five minutes now, and it will take us at least fifteen minutes each way to get to and from the restaurant."

"Kyle, please," Eric says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stopwatch. "I've got this very carefully timed out. Don't worry your pretty little head over it. We move out in--" He checks the watch. "Forty-three seconds."

"This is so exciting," Rebecca says. "And not just for the prospect of eating a chalupa. I'm very curious to see whether or not we'll be discovered."

"Well, I can tell you right now," Eric says. "We won't be."

"Where'd you get that watch thing?" Kyle asks.

"Stole it from Wendy. Don't look at me like that, I'll return it after the mission! She'll never miss it. Alright, everybody, brace yourselves. We're going to run until we hit that stop sign. Then we walk the rest of the way, calmly. Acting natural."

"Do we seriously have to run?" Henrietta asks.

"Absolutely," Kyle says. "The faster we get away from camp the better."

Kyle has begun to consider himself something of a runner, having pushed himself to run ten full minutes in the past week during group workouts, but running under the high desert sun in mid-afternoon is another story entirely. He's giddy for the first hundred yards or so, then he starts to wear down, the heat making his shortened breath feel suffocated. He's starting to drag by the time he reaches the stop sign, and he collapses against it alongside Clyde, who beat him by a few paces. They're both panting, soaked in sweat, and Eric and the girls are in a similar state when they arrive, Henrietta's eye makeup melting at the corners.

"Now," Eric says, grabbing onto the stop sign while he catches his breath. "We, ah, Jesus -- we walk at a leisurely pace to the restaurant. The counselors will be in their meeting for an hour and a half. That should give us time to eat, you know. A lot."

"I'm afraid this might make us sick," Rebecca says. "But my taste buds are deprived enough that I don't care."

"They should have given us more real treats," Henrietta says. "None of this frozen pineapple crap."

"Frozen pineapple actually sounds better than cheese right now," Kyle says. "I kind of feel like I'm gonna hurl already."

"None of that talk!" Eric swats Kyle on the ass, and Kyle punches his shoulder in retaliation. "We'll be ready to eat once we smell the delicious Mexican-style aromas. Plus, the place has air conditioning. I think."

The walk into town is somewhat nerve-wracking, though the whole place seems to be in the midst of an afternoon siesta and no cars containing people who might make assumptions about the group's gender configuration pass by on the road. It's at least easy to find their way, since the whole town is flat and its layout is plainly visible from any direction. By the time they reach the strip of stores where the restaurant is located, Kyle can smell grilled meat and exotic spices, and when the others start laughing with guilty anticipation he can't help but join them.

"My god," Rebecca says. "I just realized I haven't got any money."

"Don't worry," Eric says. "I've got enough to cover everyone."

"How did you get money?" Clyde asks. It's part of camp policy that they're not allowed to have any.

"My accountant secured it for me," Eric says, clapping Kyle on the shoulder.

"Fuck off, I'm not your accountant." Kyle shoves Eric's hand away, annoyed by how pompous he's being so far on this excursion. "I borrowed it from Kenny," Kyle says to Clyde, who looks very confused.

"That lunch lady weirdo? He didn't ask what you wanted it for?"

"No. We're friends. He let me drive his golf cart."

"He did?" Eric says, frowning. Kyle shrugs and walks ahead to open the door of the restaurant.

It's immediately not what he expected, though the smells are even better inside. He'd been picturing a scaled-down version of the Mexican restaurant back in South Park: booths with high wood backs and brightly painted walls, accordion music playing overheard and tables crowded with families eating chips and salsa. This place is empty, and little more than a lunch counter with six sticky-looking plastic booths against the walls, three on each side.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Eric says as they approach the counter, where a man in an apron waits at the register, stoic. "Where's the -- where's the cheese dip?" Eric is studying the menu, which is laid out on the wall above the counter in eight pictures of combo plates, plus some a la carte items listed in Spanish.

"I'm not seeing any cheese dip," Rebecca says. "But the steak tacos look excellent, and they're not altogether unhealthy, I'd think, aside from the fried tortilla."

"Where's the cheese?" Eric asks, scanning the pictured items. "I don't see piles of white shredded deliciousness on any of this shit!"

"Shh," Kyle says, tugging Eric's elbow. "Don't be rude. Look, they've got -- I think those are chimichangas?"

"They're tamales," Rebecca says. "If anyone needs help translating--"

"Of course you're fluent in every language." Henrietta rolls her eyes. "We're so impressed. Just order me a fucking burrito and a Coke, please. With rice on the side."

"I just want three chicken tacos," Clyde says.

"Of course you fucking do," Eric says. "Goddammit. What -- what kind of janked up Mexican is this?"

"The authentic kind, I think," Kyle says. "Calm down. It smells delicious. Just get a burrito and a taco. Craig would probably smell the cheese on you if you had it, anyway." Kyle is disappointed, too; he really wanted that cheese dip. At the same time, he's a little relieved. He's been afraid he'd end up with all of his Day One flab renewed if he helped himself to too many chips. He orders a carnitas burrito and a steak taco with rice and beans on the side. Eric orders the same thing plus a tamale and a large side of guacamole.

"Guacamole is like the health food version of cheese," he says as the carries his tray to the booth where the five of them barely fit, Clyde jammed between Henrietta and Rebecca, all three of them already chowing down. "But it's still pretty good," Eric says when he sits beside Kyle, his dark mood seeming to have lifted somewhat. Kyle grabs for his taco as soon as his ass hits the seat, his mouth watering at the smell of meat cooked in full-fat oil. The others are already moaning in appreciation at the taste. Kyle's first bite is almost alarmingly flavorful, and he doesn't even miss the piles of cheese he was envisioning.

"I should have got five of these," Clyde says, having already inhaled two chicken tacos.

"Have some guacamole," Kyle says, pushing the bowl toward the center of the table. Eric grunts in protest, his mouth full of burrito. "We can order more," Kyle says, patting Eric's thigh under the table. "If we're still hungry. We still have seven dollars."

Kyle appreciates that nobody tries to make conversation while they eat. He doesn't personally have anything to say, and isn't sure he could put into words how good the food tastes, though he also realizes that it's not actually the best Mexican food he's ever had. The meat is kind of greasy and the salsa is just okay, but it's still a transcendent experience, shoveling it in while everyone at the table similarly devours the food on their trays. 

“I'd like to say something,” Eric announces after they've finished, the remains of the meal sitting on the table amid crumpled napkins and beginning to seem rather unappetizing, at least to Kyle, whose stomach feels strange. Eric picks up his Dr. Pepper and raises it as if he's going to make a toast. “You assholes should feel proud of yourselves. Everyone here represents the few and proud among us who weren't totally brainwashed by Craig's health food bullshit. We can still eat good stuff. Just maybe not all the time or whatever.” 

“I'm personally going to go back to my old ways as soon as I can,” Rebecca says. “This meal certainly confirms that.” 

On the walk back to camp, Kyle can already feel the first rumblings of discomfort in his stomach, and he knows what this portent means. He's not sure the food was worth it, but the sense of escape from the rigidity of their camp schedule was, and the fleeting feeling of independence. He's feeling pretty positive about the entire afternoon until they reach the front entrance of camp, walking now, and Craig steps out from behind the MACKEY YOUTH CENTER sign.

"Whoa," Clyde says, as if he's impressed by Craig's stick-like stealth. To Kyle his appearance is almost comical for a moment, but this quickly dissolves into horror.

"We were jogging," Eric blurts. This has been his backup plan all along, in the event Operation Cheese Dip was uncovered at this stage. Kyle never believed it would fly, but he also didn't think they would actually get caught. "We wanted extra exercise, so--"

"Quiet," Craig says. "I observed your walk from town."

"What's the big deal?" Henrietta says. She sounds uncharacteristically panicked, her voice trembling a little. "I mean, it's not like -- we were just--"

"Perhaps this could qualify as a simple warning resulting from the group's first real offense," Rebecca says. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we'd be willing to promise not to do anything against the rules again."

"One of you already has." Craig's gaze slides to Kyle, who wants to be defiant and brave but can't muster up anything other than powerfully building nausea and growing certainty that his mother will be called to retrieve him this very afternoon. "Mr. Broflovski. Come with me. The rest of you return to your cabins at once."

"What?" Eric says. "Why him? Huh? Why's Kyle in trouble? It was my--"

"Shh!" Kyle shoots Eric a look that silences him. "I got in trouble before."

"What? When? Why didn't you--"

"Mr. Cartman," Craig says, his voice growing louder. "Return to your cabin. You may interview your friend when he returns to pack his things."

Kyle expects Eric to have a tantrum and start kicking sand, but instead his eyes go cold in a way that seems to suggest he's begun a mental rough draft of Operation Murder Mr. Tucker. The others have already started walking back to the cabins, casting nervous looks behind them as they go, and Kyle walks toward Craig mostly so Eric won't pick up a nearby rock and bash his head in unnecessarily. Kyle got himself into this situation, and should have known that Craig has been watching him like a hawk since that night in the laundry room, waiting for him to screw up enough to justify his dismissal from camp. He's numb with dreadful shock and feels like an idiot for not having expected their little adventure to end exactly like this.

The walk to Craig's office feels like the most laborious physical exercise Kyle has done all summer. His stomach is heavy, lurching, and his stiff neck and tight shoulders are making it feel like he's walking through sand instead of over it. He wants to be angry at Craig, but he's too furious with himself, and it's not like the blinding rage he experiences when he wants to lash out at external forces. He didn't need that Mexican food, it wasn't even that great, and now his dumb risk has spoiled everything. He'll lose his afternoons with Eric, won't get to say goodbye to Stan, and will go home a half-fat failure, doomed to regain every ounce.

"Sit," Craig says when they reach the cool interior of his office. It's much smaller than Mackey's and is on the inside of the building, no window. Kyle takes a seat across from Craig's desk, hoping he can get through whatever humiliating dismissal speech Craig has in store without farting audibly, though maybe forcing Craig to deal with his parting flatulence would be a kind of small and sad victory. Kyle is sweating, staring at Craig as he takes his seat. He can't help picturing Stan there, in Craig's lap, being stroked like a Persian cat.

"You're kicking me out," Kyle says. It doesn't feel real. Craig closes his eyes for a moment and presses his fingertips together, his elbows on the arms of his chair. He sighs very quietly and turns to look at something in the corner of his office: a small refrigerator.

"Are you impressed with yourself, Mr. Broflovski?" Craig asks. "Do you suppose you're actually the biggest pain in the ass I've ever dealt with in the five years I've worked here?"

"No. What? I don't know."

"Were you coerced into going off camp property?"

"Coerced? No. What do you mean?"

"Stanley is quite concerned about you." Craig doesn't bother to conceal his delight when he sees Kyle's cheeks start to turn red. He smiles and leans back fully into his chair. "He thinks Eric Cartman is impressing his will upon you in some way. I told him that's ridiculous, that you're obviously the brains of the operation."

"What operation? What do you want from me? I'm not a bad kid!"

Kyle remembers the unsent letter to his mother and flushes harder, sinking into his chair.

"Good, bad," Craig says. "It's relative." He stands and walks to the mini fridge. "I have two vices," he says, pulling it open. Inside is what Kyle would expect: four plastic bottles containing what appears to be freshly squeezed juice. Craig moves an orange one aside and reaches into the back of the fridge. He pulls out another bottle, this one factory made with a branded label: Snapple. "This is one of them," he says, presenting the Snapple to Kyle as if it's the bottle of wine he's selected for the evening. "Iced tea with real sugar. At home, I make it myself. Usually late at night and very guiltily. Even purchasing a bag of refined sugar gives me hives of shame, but it's something I cannot do without, it seems."

"Oh," Kyle says, not sure if he's being invited to reach for the Snapple or what kind of expression he should have on his face. Craig turns the bottle around and observes it himself for a moment before crouching down and placing it back in the fridge. He moves the orange juice bottle just so, hiding the Snapple.

"My other vice," he says as he stands from the fridge, "Is risk. Inadvisable but exciting situations. Scandalous behavior that takes place just out of sight of those who might judge or even punish me for it. Such as you witnessed in the laundry room that evening."

Kyle didn't think his face could get any hotter. He stares at Craig's bare desktop as Craig returns to his chair. The name plate on the desk reads CRAIG B. TUCKER. That middle initial seems wrong for him.

"What's the B stand for?" Kyle asks, muttering.

"Are you listening to me, Mr. Broflovski?"

"Yes! Just, sorry, but. What the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we share a proclivity. No, not that," he says when Kyle's eyes snap up to his. Craig smiles in a way that seems to communicate that he's aware of their shared interest in men, too, though Kyle highly doubts Stan told him and doesn't know else he might have guessed. Maybe Craig is more observant than Mackey when it comes to Kyle and Eric's afternoons alone together. "We're both risk takers," Craig says. "And maybe that's why I want to give you permission to stay here, despite the fact that this is your third strike."

"Third -- what? It's only my second! I mean, the insulin--"

"You also destroyed camp property."

"What -- that shrub?"

"Yes, the shrub. And I saw you in the presence of contraband, as well, but I commend you for the fact that you made Mr. Cartman pitch it into the dumpster. An admirable use of your influence over him."

"You -- what, you saw us? Jesus, are you fucking omniscient? Are you watching every move I make?"

"No, but you're not the only one who sneaks about this place at night."

Kyle thinks of Craig slipping into Stan's quiet little bunk, easing the guitar from his hands and pressing him down to the bed. He's scowling, he realizes, and he tries to stop, since Craig mentioned potential leniency. Craig sighs again, more forcefully this time, and says nothing.

"Are you kicking me out or what?" Kyle asks when he can't take Craig's unblinking stare any longer.

"Can you guess how much I weighed at your age?" Craig asks.

"What -- I don't know. Three hundred pounds."

"Ha. No. One hundred and twenty seven. Which doesn't sound so remarkable until you factor in that I shot up to six foot one that same summer. Are you picturing this?"

"Trying to." Kyle is not that impressed by the fact that Craig was super skinny at fifteen.

"They called me Creature Craig," he says. "My face was bonier then, too. People used to hiss at me in the hallways at school. I was sometimes referred to as The Vampire."

Kyle almost laughs at that, mostly because it was unexpected. He bites his tongue hard and tries to look sympathetic. Craig shrugs.

"Adolescence is difficult,” he says. “I was also increasingly aware of my homosexuality, and my parents were not fans of such. Not a great time to be alive, if you were me."

"I'm sorry your childhood sucked, dude. Seriously. Mine wasn't great either."

"It's interesting that you use the past tense when referring to your unpleasant childhood. This is what I want to speak to you about, Kyle. You've done well here at camp. You look much healthier already. I, too, had a surge in attractiveness around your age. I tried everything to gain weight, and finally my body seemed to give its permission. At seventeen I filled out more and became the sort of proto-version of who I am now. The sudden confidence was intoxicating, and dangerously so. I took some risks I should not have."

"Like what?"

"I'm not going to discuss it specifically, but it involved an older person, a man. I was very quickly in over my head."

"God!" Kyle says, the rage starting to build. He wants to grab that Snapple from the fridge and smash it, so tired of this. "Stan is wrong, okay? You said so yourself! Eric isn't making me do anything--"

"I'm not speaking about Eric Cartman. He's a smitten child and Stan is ridiculous to worry about him. What I'm talking about is flying too close to the sun, generally. Don't mistake your new confidence for invincibility. Leaving campus with your friends to eat forbidden food is a serious risk, and I'm not talking about whatever godawful amount of calories you consumed. It's self-sabotaging behavior."

"Okay." Kyle is still mad, but confusion is starting to overtake his rage. "I'm sorry, like. I just. You're right, okay? It wasn't worth it."

"Be more careful with the choices you make. And stop looking at me like we're always in the midst of a knife fight. I'm not as good with people as Mackey, but I am here because I care about kids like you. I know that it's hell to go through adolescence in a body that invites ridicule."

This renders Kyle speechless, and he feels bad for shouting and wanting to break Craig's Snapple. He looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath, letting it slowly as the last of his anger recedes.

"So you're not kicking me out?" he mutters.

"No. I said that in front of the group to communicate the gravity of this transgression. You can tell them that you remain here only by the skin of your teeth, which is true at this point. Furthermore, you may require insulin after that meal. Go to the nurse's station. I'll tell Stan to meet you there."

"Oh -- um, okay. Craig?"

"Yes?"

"Can I use the bathroom first?"

"For god's sake - yes. You should have privacy in the hallway boys' room. I'm sure Donovan and Cartman are fighting over the one in your cabin, the idiots."

"See, you say you care about us," Kyle says, standing. "Then you call us idiots."

"It's possible to care about people who engage in idiotic behavior. As you seem to be involved in some sort of romantic entanglement with Eric Cartman, I'd think you were aware of that. Go to the restroom, please. I can tell by the look on your face that you're in agony. That restaurant was the worst choice you kids could have made, really."

"Thanks," Kyle says, nearly forgetting this as he hurries for the door. He turns back to meet Craig's eyes. "I mean, just. Thank you."

"Yes, yes -- go to the toilet, I don't want you having an accident in my office."

Annoyed by the suggestion that he would, Kyle leaves. Ten minutes later he leaves the boys' bathroom feeling tired and ill but much lighter in his steps. He washed his hands three times and still feels like he needs a full shower when he reaches the nurse's station, where Stan is waiting for him in the chair across from the exam table, watching the door with an anxious look on his face.

"Dude, are you okay?" Stan asks, hopping up. "You look kinda green."

"I'm -- yeah. I'm okay." Kyle experiences a renewed wave of exhaustion and wants to slump forward against Stan's chest, to hide there for a few minutes and feel sorry for himself, though he's actually incredibly lucky that Craig went easy on him and the worst of his stomach's reaction that food has probably passed. "We -- did Craig tell you?"

"He said you guys snuck off. That was dumb, man, don't do that. The desert is dangerous, and people in town are weird--"

"Okay, I know. I won't do it again."

They're both quiet while Kyle does his injection, as always. When Stan puts the supplies away Kyle braces himself for a lecture about Eric being a bad influence. Instead, Stan walks back to the examining table and puts his hand on Kyle's damp forehead. Kyle stays completely still, though he wants to sit up straighter, to press into the touch, to pull Stan against him and take comfort in another long hug.

"You're overheated," Stan says.

"We walked a long time in the sun, coming back from town.”

"Mhmm. Go to your cabin and rest, okay? Lie down and cool off. Drink some water."

"Can't I do that in your room?" Kyle asks, and as soon as the words are out he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Stan's eyebrows pinch in just slightly, but Kyle feels this implicit rejection like a slap. Craig was right: Kyle is flying too close to the sun, saying things like that to Stan. "Just -- never mind," he says. "I only asked 'cause Eric and Clyde are going to be stinking up our cabin, uh. We ate Mexican food."

"Oh, Jesus, from that place across from the bar? Well, look. Dealing with the aftermath is your punishment for joining them, I guess. You can't just -- you can't--"

"I know. I don't know why I said that, sorry."

"It's not -- I've got things to do, I can't just leave you in my room--"

"I know!" Kyle didn't mean for that to come out so forcefully. He smiles and shrugs. "I'll, uh. I'll go."

Stan doesn't stop him, and Kyle feels unbalanced on the walk back to the cabin, grateful for how things played out but not quite comfortable with being in Craig's debt. He opens the cabin door and is barely able to walk through it before Eric rushes him, wide-eyed.

"What happened?" Eric asks, grabbing Kyle's shoulders. "What'd he do to you? We'll go to Mackey, that nutritionist asshole can't--"

"Hey, calm down!" Kyle says. "Nothing happened. I got a lecture, that's all."

"A lecture? You were gone for almost an hour!" Eric is breathing heavily, his fingers digging into Kyle's shoulders. Clyde is audibly using the bathroom and Butters is elsewhere, probably doing crafts with Bebe and Tammy like a good little camper. "Kyle," Eric says, lowering his face to Kyle's and speaking more quietly. "You can tell me the truth, okay? Did that bastard do something to you?"

"Who -- what? What are you talking about?"

"Craig! He's been obsessed with you from day one, and now I finally gave him his fucking chance with my stupid Mexican restaurant bullshit crap idea--"

"Eric--"

"Did he rape you?" Eric asks, whispering this. At first it seems like a joke, and Kyle can't help but laugh when he realizes Eric is serious.

" _Rape_ me? Of course not, Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?"

He never would have said that if he'd taken half a second to think about how it would sound to Eric, but he didn't, and the way Eric's eyes change confirms the fact that Kyle is now the world's biggest asshole, since he's maybe the only person alive who knows exactly what's 'wrong' with Eric that provoked this reaction.

"No, I mean--" Kyle says when Eric's fingers uncurl from his shoulders. "Just. Sorry, I know you were worried--"

"Fuck it, fine, whatever," Eric mutters as he turns away. "Excuse the shit out of me for caring."

"Eric, no, I didn't mean--"

Clyde comes out of the bathroom looking winded. He closes the door quickly behind him and stumbles over to his bed, which he collapses onto face first.

"Oh my god," he says, his voice muffled against the mattress. "That was the worst thing that ever happened to me."

"Clyde's shit bag burst," Eric announces, dropping onto his own bed.

"Shut up!" Clyde shouts, still muffled. "That's not true."

"Well, you had some kind of malfunction, and you were in the bathroom for half an hour."

"Shut up," Clyde says again, more weakly. Kyle is still standing near the door, not sure what to do when Eric picks up _Old Yeller_ and pretends to read it, his hand shaking visibly when he turns a page. He wants to comfort Eric, to hug him and kiss him and whisper apologies, but it would be weird with Clyde here, though he's not looking.

"Hey," Kyle says, walking over to Eric's bed. Eric keeps his eyes on the book. Kyle can see that his lip is shaking, too, just a little. "Sorry you were worried," Kyle says, touching Eric's hair. He checks on Clyde, who still has his face buried miserably against his bed. "I didn't mean to -- you just took me off guard, um--"

"I'm gonna take a shower," Eric says, leaning away from Kyle's hand. "Guess I have to do it in the middle of whatever crime scene Clyde left in the bathroom."

Clyde says nothing this time, and Kyle feels awful for him. Eric should be taking his hurt feelings out on Kyle, if anybody. Eric tosses _Old Yeller_ down and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door hard behind him.

"Clyde?" Kyle says when he hears the shower turn on at full blast. "Are you okay? Do you need me to call the nurse or something?"

"I'm fine." Clyde crawls more completely onto the bed, up toward his pillow. "Eric is insane, by the way. The whole time I was in there he was out here ranting about how we needed to storm Craig's office and rescue you."

"He's just dramatic. I hope you feel better."

Kyle stretches out in his bed, wanting to go to Eric but also to give him space if he's actually crying in there. He'll have a talk with Eric later and cuddle him appropriately, hopefully in some place that doesn't smell like a recently used bathroom.

He ends up falling asleep on his back in bed, so tired from the trek to and from town that he doesn't wake up until Butters comes over to shake him and tell him he's going to be late for their evening work out. Kyle wakes grumpily, hating the feeling of having slept longer than he meant to, and assesses the Eric situation: he's dressing for the pool, tying the drawstring on his board shorts.

"It's a swimming one?" Kyle says, mumbling and not yet fully awake. Butters nods. That means it will be a Stan workout. Kyle isn't sure he wants to see Stan this evening, after Stan's reaction to Kyle's embarrassing request to recover in his room. It also occurs to him, more slowly than it should have, that Stan is regularly discussing him -- and Eric -- with Craig. He's annoyed about this by the time he finishes dressing for the pool. As they head out to meet the girls he tries to fall into step with Eric, who is pointedly avoiding his pleading stares.

"Sure glad you guys didn't get in too much trouble today," Butters says. "Please don't do that again! I don't want ya'll getting kicked out and me ending up in the cabin alone, that'd be scary."

"What the hell are you afraid of?" Eric asks. His tone is more earnestly aggressive than usual, instantly setting Kyle on edge. "You think some pervert's going to break in and kidnap you from your fat camp bunk?" Eric says, and Kyle's heart sinks. It's like Eric is bleeding everywhere and there's nothing to plug the wound that Kyle thoughtlessly knifed into him. He wants to at least take Eric's hand, but Stan is looking at them. He's standing with the girls, near their cabin.

"Mostly I'm afraid of scorpions," Butters says, oblivious.

"Feeling better?" Stan asks as they approach the group, and Kyle nods. 

"Were you sick?" Eric asks, frowning.

"No. I took insulin, you know. Craig made me. Or, I mean, I needed it--"

Eric walks away from Kyle, toward Rebecca and Henrietta, who are headed for the pool. Kyle senses Stan noticing this, staring at him, but he ignores it and walks with Butters.

"Was the food real good?" Butters asks, whispering. "At the restaurant?"

"It was okay, just average. Not enough cheese."

"Oh, that's a shame. You guys sure stunk up the bathroom after!"

"Butters, please."

They warm up with laps and then play a game of Shark and Minnows, which is Kyle's least favorite pool activity. He's in a bad mood and not trying very hard, which means he keeps getting turned into a Shark. He highly prefers being a Minnow. Eric goes out of his way to tag Kyle first when he's the Shark, when normally he lets him sneak past for at least three turns. It's so childish and small that Kyle decides he doesn't want to talk to Eric either, even though this passive aggressive fight is his fault. He tried to apologize but Eric wouldn't let him, and on the walk back to the cabins to change for dinner they're both silent.

"Everything okay?" Stan asks as soon as Kyle walks through the door of the nurse's station for his pre-dinner injection.

"Yeah, fine. Why?"

"At the pool, uh. Never mind."

Kyle does his injection in the customary silence, boiling with growing anger the whole time. It's strange to feel the rage pointing itself in Stan's direction, but he can't seem to stop it any more than he can when he's angry with Craig or his mother.

"Do you talk to Craig about me?" he asks when Stan is putting his things away. "I mean, I know you do," he says when Stan turns. "Craig told me you have, like, _concerns_."

"Dude," Stan says, and the hurt in his voice pricks Kyle's rage balloon like a gentle needle, letting out some of the pressure but not popping it entirely. "He shouldn't -- I'm sorry if he threw that in your face or something. He said he was nice."

"So you talked about me with him again, today, already."

"Well, yeah. Me and you talk about Craig, don't we? I don't say anything bad about you, or anything that I don't say to your face. What -- what did he say I said?"

"That you still don't believe me about Eric, that you think he's the ringleader and I'm this poor sap following him around."

"Craig said that?" Stan raises his eyebrows incredulously.

"Well. Not in so many words."

"Kyle, dude -- he was just talking about before, you know, when you were asking me how to give a blow job or whatever."

"You told him I asked about that!" Kyle hops off the table, livid, and Stan actually takes a step backward.

"No!" he says. "I didn't, I just mean that's when I was worried, so that's when I mentioned that I was concerned about you and Eric to Craig, and that was a while ago. Don't get all pissed off before I can even explain myself."

"Don't tell me when to get pissed off!" Kyle says. He turns with a growl and punches the exam table as hard as he can, his fist bouncing hard off its cushy plastic surface.

"Hey!" Stan says, and the tone of his voice shocks Kyle out of his rage for a moment. It's replaced with a flare of arousal that sends goosebumps prickling down the back of his neck. He didn't know Stan was capable of sounding so confidently authoritative. Stan looks surprised by it himself, but he frowns after Kyle meets his eyes. "You need to cool it," he says, and he scoffs when Kyle smiles. "What?"

"Just. You said 'cool it.' I, um. Say that, too, sometimes. Sorry."

"Sit here," Stan says, pointing to the chair by the medical cabinet. "Take some deep breaths and calm down."

Kyle does as Stan asked, his arousal intensifying with the pleasure of obeying Stan's command. It's never felt good to submit to authority before, or to be told that he's overreacting, but this is different somehow. Kyle puts his elbows on his knees and dips his head down while he takes deep breaths. His breathing stops entirely when he feels Stan's hand in his hair. 

“There you go,” Stan says. He pats Kyle's head a few times, then leaves his hand there. “Keep breathing,” he says, and Kyle exhales in a choppy rush. It feels good, and the weight of Stan's hand on his head is incredible; he might as well be touching Kyle's cock, which has begun to stiffen. Kyle should get up and leave before that can happen, but he's unwilling to move, especially when Stan's thumb strokes softly through Kyle's curls, then again, again. 

“I'm sorry,” Kyle says, and the cowed sound of his own voice makes him shiver. He wants to drop even lower, all the way to the floor, and rub his cock against Stan's leg while he begs forgiveness, clutching at him. 

“It's okay.” Stan clears his throat and takes his hand from Kyle's hair. Kyle leans back in the chair and looks up at him, making no attempt to hide the fact that he's at Stan's mercy and that surrendering to it has made his cock hard. Stan holds Kyle's gaze, and Kyle sees his throat bob when he swallows. There's something pulled tight between them, like an invisible rope that's about to snap. “Go to dinner,” Stan says, speaking sharply again. 

“I'm not hungry,” Kyle says. He moves his knees apart, just a little. Stan hasn't looked down, but he must have noticed Kyle's erection. To Kyle it feels like the most obvious thing in the room, singing at full volume. He knows he's much too close to the sun now, can feel heat prickling over every inch of his skin, and though he's just a fraction away from being burned by his own boldness he only wants to get closer to the source of the fire, to Stan. 

“Go,” Stan says, and he turns his back on Kyle. It's as if he's let go of his end of that tightly pulled rope; the connection is broken, and Kyle stands up feeling stupid, his dick aching and making his steps awkward on the way to the door. When he gets there he pauses with his hand on the knob and listens to Stan breathing. He's agitated, mad at himself or Kyle, maybe both. 

“Sorry,” Kyle says, though he doesn't mean it this time. Stan makes a soft noise, somewhere between a grunt and the sound he might make if he was punched in the gut. It goes right to Kyle's dick, and he hurries out of the nurse's station before he can do anything even stupider. He's in a daze on the walk to the cafeteria, and before going into the dining hall he slips into the boys' bathroom. It's not easy for him to jerk off standing up, or in the same bathroom where he got sick earlier, but he manages it, gasping as quietly as he can when he shoots into the toilet bowl, imagining Stan's hand closed tightly in his curls, his hard cock thrusting into Kyle's mouth while Kyle sits obediently in that chair, their eyes locking as Kyle swallows spurt after spurt of Stan's hot come.

He has to splash cold water on his face afterward, the dizzy haze that overtook him on the walk from the nurse's station persisting. At dinner, he's almost glad that Eric is still giving him the cold shoulder so he won't have to talk much. By the time they're heading back to the cabin it's bothering him again, and he pokes at Eric's arm until he finally consents to glower at Kyle.

“Stop it,” Eric says. 

“No,” Kyle says, though he already has. He moves closer to Eric, his shoulder bumping against Eric's arm as they walk. Eric stares straight ahead, looking annoyed but allowing Kyle to hover. “Long fucking day,” Kyle says, mumbling. Eric grunts.

“It was supposed to be our date,” he says, mumbling this very quietly, his jaw clenched. 

“Oh. Eric—”

“It doesn't fucking matter. I've done all this stuff with you, but when I go home I'll still never have been on a stupid date. Everything will be just like it was before.”

They reach the cabin before Kyle can come up with a response to that. He wants to say something comforting, but he's devastated by the thought himself. In a matter of weeks camp will be over, and he won't have Eric to cuddle with after bad days at school or kiss in the dark of the South Park movie theater. A kind of delicate yoke at the center of Kyle's heart seems pierced when he thinks of it this way, gooey feelings that he'd contained until now spilling out everywhere. Eric goes to bed early and Kyle lies in his own bed listening to Clyde and Butters playing Go Fish. Clyde doesn't last long, tired from the day's ordeal, and soon they're both asleep, the cabin dark and quiet except for Clyde's intermittent snoring.

Kyle sits up in bed and looks at Eric. He's turned away from Kyle, which was probably deliberate at one point, but it's clear that he's actually asleep now, his blanket pulled up to his ear. The mound that his body makes under the sheets isn't as big as it was when they first got to camp, but he still fills most of the bed. Kyle slips out from under his own sheets and moves toward Eric as quietly as he can. 

He doesn't want to scare Eric, and it's quite possible that waking to the feeling of someone sliding into his bed might bring back some of his worst memories. Kyle hovers in the space between their beds, wondering how he should do this and trying not to think too precisely about what Eric has been through. Was it only blow jobs? How old was he when it happened, how long did it go on? Did he gain the weight afterward or did it make him vulnerable in the first place, advertising his friendless isolation to his abuser? Kyle doesn't really need or even want the answers to any of these questions, but he feels suddenly desperate not to hold himself apart from Eric anymore. Even if they manage to visit each other in the future, they'll never have a time together like this again. Not at the Air Force Academy, certainly, and probably not even at a normal college if they both held on to their determination to attend the same one. This summer has been sacred, and their time here at camp has belonged to them so completely, in a way that nothing in their lonely lives ever had before. He wants to spend his last weeks here knowing that and appreciating every irreplaceable moment of it. 

“Hey,” he whispers as he sits on Eric's bed, and he remembers how Stan said that word so differently earlier, powerfully enough to make it burrow under Kyle's skin like a fever. “Hey,” Kyle whispers again, leaning down to kiss Eric's cheek. Though it's cool in the aggressively air-conditioned cabin, Eric's face is warm. He smells faintly of soap but mostly like himself, and like all the afternoons they've passed together in this bed, exhausting each other with orgasms. When Eric blinks awake Kyle leans back a little, not wanting to loom like a threat. Eric frowns at him and rolls onto his back.

“Are you insane?” Eric says. “I'm not sneaking out tonight.”

“I'm not asking you to. Can I get in?”

“Get – oh.” Eric opens his eyes fully and moves over so that Kyle has room to climb in beside him, slipping his legs under the blankets. It's only awkward until Kyle loops his arms around Eric's neck and brings their faces together, and then it's like it always is, except that it's nighttime and Clyde and Butters are sleeping nearby. Eric huffs a little as he gets comfortable, pushing his still massive thigh up between Kyle's legs. 

“I can't sleep,” Kyle whispers. 

“So? You want me to jerk you off or something?” Eric casts a wary look over at Clyde and Butters' side of the room. 

“No. Just—” Kyle is too embarrassed to ask to be kissed, even after everything else he's asked Eric to do to him, but he doesn't really need to. He kisses Eric to show him what he wants right now, and what he thinks they both probably need more than anything, more than the sex and the weight loss and elaborately far-fetched plans to someday make out in a supply closet at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. It's an untethered closeness, secret in the dark with the other two nearby but also very far away from their little boyfriend bubble. Kyle hopes Eric can taste it on him, because he doesn't have the words to describe what changed in him when Eric talked glumly about the fact that they'll probably never have a real date. Eric seems to sense something is different. His kisses are softer than usual, and he keeps pulling back to give Kyle questioning looks before submitting to more kissing. 

“Will you get in trouble if you sleep here?” Eric asks. “Do you think?”

“Probably. I'm on thin ice, Craig said. Hanging on by the skin of my teeth.” 

“I thought he was going to throw you out.” Eric's grip tightens on Kyle under the blankets, one hand squeezed around Kyle's waist and the other on his shoulder.

“You thought worse than that, apparently.” 

“Yeah, well. I just don't trust, uh. Guys like that.” 

“He's not as bad as he seems. Look, like. Thanks for worrying about me. I was worried, too. About being thrown out, I mean. Not the other thing.”

“Sometimes I get kind of crazy about – stuff,” Eric says, mumbling. Kyle kisses his face all over, nodding. 

“Me, too. You saw me with the shrub.” 

Eric snickers at he memory and they kiss again, until Kyle starts to fall asleep. He knows he should get up, sneak back to his own bed, but he wants to wait just a little longer. Eric is stroking his hair, breathing warmly against his forehead, and there's no telling when either of them will be held in the dark like this again, taking comfort after a long and confusing day. When the moment comes and he has to choose, Kyle lets himself fall asleep, too tired and comfortable to care about the consequences. 

In the morning he's only slightly disoriented when he finds himself in his own bed, amazed that he didn't wake up when Eric carried him there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this 24k final chapter is finally done, Christ! I don't know why this story was so hard for me to write, but I did enjoy it for the most part. Please let me know if you have thoughts about this conclusion! An epilogue will follow, anyway. Thanks for reading, and sorry again for the most recent delay between chapters. I've really enjoyed hearing from everyone throughout this, and I appreciate the feedback immensely.

Though he's been dreading the end of camp since their final month here began, Kyle doesn't fully accept that this experience will soon be over until Mackey announces one evening that the campfire they're all gathered around will be the last all-ages gathering before their parents arrive for the final send off. It takes Kyle off guard, and he looks over at Eric to see if he's bothered by the reminder, too. Eric is frowning at something on the other side of the campfire. Kyle follows his gaze and sees Stan laughing with Kenny, who is distributing fruit kabobs to the campers in the circle.

"Your wet nurse is drunk again," Eric says.

"No, he's not," Kyle says, though there is something about Stan's laugh that seems off, and the way he's moving is more fluid than usual, less guarded. "And don't call him that."

Kyle watches Stan warily, trying not to be obvious about it. Things have been strained between them since the day Kyle got an erection in the nurse's station and didn't try to hide it. Kyle feels stupid about it now, and guilty, because it seems to have dampened Stan's spirits somehow. He's been more pale and bleary during Kyle's morning injections, more mumbly and impatient in the evenings, and quieter in general. He doesn't linger as close anymore, and Kyle can't blame him for that, but the drunken behavior is worrisome. Despite all the awkwardness, the invisible pull between Stan and Kyle feels stronger than ever, both of them always tensed up and almost jumpy in each other's presence now. Kyle feels Eric staring at him and realizes that he was staring, too, at Stan.

"Hey," Kyle says, putting his fist on Eric's knee. "This is depressing."

"What is?" Eric asks, muttering.

"The last big campfire of the summer."

"Yeah, well." Eric glances hatefully at Stan when he laughs loud enough to be heard from the other side of the campfire, bending at his waist. "You don't even like the campfires."

It's true that Kyle doesn't enjoy them, but he's talking more about the oncoming end of camp, though maybe Eric doesn't need to hear that right now. Instead, inspired, Kyle leans over to whisper in Eric's ear.

"Hey, so tomorrow," he says. "Let's try something new. The last thing. The big thing."

Eric pulls back to look at him, his eyes widening as he takes in Kyle's expression. Kyle shrugs and smiles. He's been thinking about when and if he should lose his dick-in-butt virginity ever since Eric first worked a finger into him. Sitting here across from cackling, drunk Stan, by their last ever campfire, has strengthened his resolve. He wants to give some part of himself up forever to this experience, this summer, and to Eric.

"Yeah -- you -- sure?" Eric says, and Kyle can't tell if this is a question or his consent. Kyle nods and looks back to the campfire, trying not to monitor Stan's whereabouts from the corner of his eye.

"Good," Kyle says. "Then it's settled."

"Yeah," Eric says, watching Kyle warily, like he's afraid this is a trick. He seems nervous, which is good. Kyle wouldn't want to do this -- not yet, anyway -- with someone who wasn't.

For the rest of the night Kyle feels triumphant in his certainty, but in the morning his doubts quickly creep back in. He's mostly afraid it will hurt, and that Eric will blame himself and have a panic attack if Kyle doesn't fully enjoy himself. On his way to the nurse's station for his injection he's debating whether or not to ask Stan about anal sex, though he knows it's another really bad idea. It turns out to be irrelevant: Stan isn't there when Kyle walks into the nurse's station. Wendy is waiting for him, looking annoyed.

"What--" Kyle lingers in the doorway, his heart rate picking up. "Where's Stan?"

"Stan is ill. C'mon, he told me you can do this yourself. I'm doing the morning workout with the elementary school group, so we've got to hurry up."

Kyle remains in the doorway until Wendy raises her eyebrows impatiently. He moves toward the cabinet where his supplies are kept and gets his things, his hands shaking. He has a thousand questions and isn't sure he should give voice to any of them. He does his injection in silence as usual, but it feels very different with Wendy watching, her eyes sort of glazed over as if her mind is elsewhere. She still seems angry, but Kyle doesn't get the sense that it's directed at him.

"What's wrong with Stan?" he asks as he puts his things away, though he feels like he knows already.

"Nothing. He has a headache. All done?"

"Wendy?"

"Yes?"

"Is Stan okay?"

"Of course, honey." Wendy's expression softens. "He's, just. He's got a headache, like I said. How's, um. How's he been with you this summer, helping with the injections?"

"He's been great," Kyle says. He feels queasy, uncomfortable with discussing Stan behind his back but desperate for some kind of outside perspective on him. "He's really good at this, like, with listening? I'm more comfortable with him than with Mackey."

"Oh, well. Maybe because you're closer in age. Okay, all done? I've got to get a move on."

Kyle leaves the nurse's station feeling unbalanced, like the ground is shifting under his feet. At breakfast he's quiet, preoccupied with thoughts of Stan's whereabouts. Is he in bed, hungover? Crying? Kyle wants to go to him, and only when he notices Eric staring at him more intently than usual does he remember his promise at the campfire last night and the anal sex that Eric is anticipating during their free hour.

"Oh," Kyle says, without meaning to actually voice this. Butters turns to look at him.

"You got the hiccups or something?" Butters asks, and he gives Kyle a few slaps on the back.

"No, just. Um--"

"What's the optional afternoon activity?" Eric asks, staring at Clyde as if daring him to skip it. "Something good, I hope."

"Relax," Clyde says, monotone. "We're not going to hone in on your boning session."

This makes the girls laugh, except Henrietta, who snorts derisively.

"At least someone around here is getting laid," she says. "I thought this place would be a total fuck fest. What a letdown."

"You--" Clyde says, giving her a once over as if he's just now, two and half months into camp, noticed that's she there. Henrietta has lost at least twenty pounds, but she's retained a kind of roundness that seems less visibly uncomfortable than it did at the start of camp. "You wanted a fuck fest?" Clyde says, and Rebecca laughs again. Henrietta shrugs and returns her eyes to her omelet.

After breakfast they have team building with Wendy, and Kyle is horrible at all three games they play, distracted by his worry over Stan and his growing uncertainty about actually doing the 'real sex' thing with Eric in less than an hour. Wendy seems to notice his inability to concentrate but doesn't lambaste him for it like she normally would, which he appreciates. She's probably worried about Stan, too. Kyle is afraid Eric has noticed how anxious and distracted he is, though it might be worse if he hasn't. On their walk to the cabin he touches Kyle's shoulders and back almost timidly, sighing a lot.

"So this is it," Eric blurts when they're almost there. "D-day."

"Ha," Kyle says, and he takes Eric's hand, trying to draw courage from him. It works, because Eric's hand is shaking. At least he's not barreling toward this full force like he did with the blow job. "Yep."

Everyone else is back at the main building for optional activities, and for the first time all summer, Kyle kind of wishes he was with them, painting with water colors while Mackey's tinkly spa music plays on the overhead speakers. He keeps trying to envision Eric's fat dick in his ass, failing to see how it could feel good, though it's been a regular part of his fantasies for a while now. Fantasies are one thing; virgin assholes are another. Kyle's keeps clenching in fear every time Eric touches him, and he's sweating worse than usual, dripping with it by the time they reach the cabin.

"Um, I'm gonna shower," Kyle says. "I'll make it quick."

"Sure, sure, take your time," Eric says. "No, uh, hurry." He goes to the cabinet beside his bed and roots through it, presumably hunting for the condoms Kyle got from Kenny.

Kyle ducks into the bathroom and takes a deep breath. He tells himself this is no big deal. He's fantasized about it frequently enough that he wants it, but he also wants to skip over this part: the first, potentially painful, totally inexperienced time. And will his future boyfriends think it's weird that he did this at fifteen? Will he really end up in a broom closet with Eric at college, doing this? Or a dorm room? Would he even want Eric around at college, being weird and scaring off other potential friends? Is it cruel to ask Eric to do this with him and also not tell him that he's pretty sure he doesn't want that? His head is spinning by the time he turns on the shower, and he makes the water colder than he normally does, wanting a bracing temperature.

He's so nervous that it takes him a while to even work up the nerve to part his ass cheeks and clean himself. He's done this a few times to prepare for getting felt up, but that never seemed like as big of a deal, and he's always kept it shallow, mostly washing the outside. He doesn't really like putting his fingers into himself: it feels weird and dirty, even when they're coated with a thick layer of soap. He grits his teeth and forces himself to work one finger in as deeply as he can, squirming it around in what doesn't exactly feel like a cleaning motion. He's tense, and he can't seem to get himself to unclench enough to make this painless. His ass is stinging when he rinses himself out, and for a moment he actually thinks he's going to cry. Why did he tell Eric he would do this? What was he thinking, last night at the stupid campfire, distracted by Stan's embarrassing behavior, which is probably Kyle's fault? He climbs out of the shower, wondering if Stan will be there for his pre-lunch injection, and if he'll be sympathetic if Kyle cries pathetically over his sore ass and lost virginity. Probably not: Kyle spent that nickel when he flashed his erection at Stan like a desperate idiot.

Leaving the bathroom with a towel around his waist, he suddenly feels like all of the decisions he's made this summer have been those of a desperate idiot. Eric is stretched out on the bed, wearing a clean t-shirt and lying under the sheet, looking semi-terrified. This calms Kyle a little, but only briefly, because what sort of look will Eric have on his face if Kyle blurts that he doesn't actually want to do this? He imagines Eric diving headfirst into that dumpster, blubbering with sobs and hunting through the garbage for his long lost candy bars. If Kyle doesn't go through with this he may ruin Eric's life, and he's already done something pretty awful to Stan's, if not outright ruin.

"Should I turn on some music?" Eric asks when Kyle lingers near the bathroom door.

"How? What? Where -- what music?"

"I don't know, uh. Butters has that radio thing."

"No, um." Kyle tries to make himself consider this: would it be nice to have music? Relaxing, good for atmosphere? Has he pictured his first time with music? He suddenly can't remember, and can't think straight at all. He's holding his towel around himself tightly, though Eric has seen him naked plenty of times. "You're already hard," he says, staring at the tented bedsheet.

"What -- oh, yeah. I was, like, thinking of you in the shower. Getting ready and stuff."

"Ah -- ha, okay."

"Are you alright?" Eric sits up on his elbows, his knees twitching under the sheet. "You look like you're gonna hurl."

"I'm fine," Kyle says. He doesn't want to act like an infant, especially since he's really enjoyed multiple fingers up his ass. He doesn't want to hurt Eric's feelings by refusing the simple width increase that his cock represents. He doesn't want to move from the spot where he's standing.

"You sure?" Eric asks. He squirms and glances toward the door. "Um, 'cause. You could do me, if you don't want me to do you."

"Do you? Like – fuck you?"

"Yeah." Eric shrugs and blushes. He doesn't look particularly enthusiastic. Kyle tries to imagine putting so much as a finger up Eric's ass and still doesn't like the idea.

"No," Kyle says. "I mean, no, thank you. I'd rather. I guess."

"C'mere." Eric scoots over and pats the bed. Kyle makes himself move forward, feeling like he just woke up in some older person's life. Eric looks worried, and he's overly warm when Kyle settles against him in bed. With Eric's arm around him Kyle feels even smaller, younger, and he hides his face against Eric's neck, clinging to him and hoping that he'll understand Kyle's inexplicable state of mind by osmosis. When Eric sighs Kyle slumps onto him with relief, because he sounds resigned, like he knows this isn't really going to happen.

"Sorry," Kyle mutters, his voice muffled against Eric's neck. “Um, I don't know if—” 

"I don't care," Eric says. He's rubbing Kyle's back, and he cradles Kyle's head with his other hand, digging his fingers in through Kyle's wet curls. "I mean. It's not like. Not like we'll never see each other again, after camp. It's not like we have to do it now or never."

"Right!" Kyle pops up and nods. "Exactly, I just. Last night, you know, it was the last big campfire. It got me thinking, and I panicked, and, but. I'm not really ready."

Eric says nothing and Kyle gets tense again, fearing a breakdown, but Eric's hand is still moving on his back, and he's radiating a kind of comfortable acceptance that Kyle wants to sink into. He shifts back down to rest his cheek on Eric's shoulder. It's still soft, a perfect pillow.

"I'm scared," Kyle admits. "Not of you. I just. If it hurts. I don't know."

"It's okay," Eric says. He hugs Kyle against him and touches his cheek. "I seriously don't care. I mean, it'd be cool, but this is good. I wish we could do this every day. Forever."

"This? Oh." Kyle wraps his arms around Eric and slings his leg across Eric's lap, bumping Eric's wilting erection in the process. "It is really great. Thank you, like. Thanks for being my boyfriend."

Something about saying this makes Kyle's eyes water a little. He's afraid to look up at Eric, who is holding his breath. When he finally lets it out Kyle sinks down with it, riding the slow wave of Eric's deflating chest.

"You can still be that after we leave here," Eric says. "My boyfriend, I mean. If you want."

"Sure," Kyle says. "Yeah, we could be, like. Long distance."

"Yeah, exactly. We can Skype. Do you have Skype?"

"No, but I can get it. And we can text." Kyle beams, enjoying the idea of finally having someone to text stupid updates about his mundane activities throughout the day. And not just anyone: a boyfriend who will be glad to hear from him, thrilled to read about what he just ate for lunch.

"Do your parents look at your phone?" Eric asks, stroking Kyle's side now, his dick rising again under the sheet.

"Not usually," Kyle says. "Why?"

"'Cause I'll send you dick pics, that's why. If you want."

"Oh, shit, yeah." Kyle laughs and presses his face to Eric's neck. This is better than fucking: making plans. He feels more authentically grown up than he did when he casually offered anal sex yesterday. "Should I send you, like. Butthole pics?" he asks.

"Of course, yes, that would be excellent."

They laugh and squirm together, practicing the kind of dirty talk messages they'll send each other during the school day. It's funny but it's also hot; Eric is creative in a particularly filthy way. Before the end of the free hour they've dry-humped each other to completion, and Kyle allows himself to doze off for a few minutes, relaxing into the feeling that he's not going to be forced to choose between ruining Eric's life or reporting to the college of his choice. It's going to be so good, just having someone to talk to, even if they can't talk in person.

Kyle's steps are lighter on the way to Nutrition class, but they slow as he takes his detour toward the nurse's station. He's not sure if Stan will be there, and not even sure if he wants him to be. He's been dreading the probably inevitable moment when things between them morph from uncomfortable to unbearable, and this might be the day.

At first Kyle thinks Stan has failed to show up again, then he spots him at the nurse's desk, playing with his phone. Stan looks up and gives Kyle a tired smile, his thumbs still poised over the phone.

"Feeling better?" Kyle asks.

"What? Oh, yeah."

They stare at each other until Kyle can't take it anymore. He goes to the supply cabinet, his cheeks hot and heart pounding. He can hear Stan tapping at his phone again, composing a message. To Craig? Probably. What does Craig think of Stan's drinking? Before their chat in Craig's office Kyle would have assumed that Craig liked it when Stan was drunk, because it would make him an easier target for seduction, but now he wonders if Craig is worried, too. Kyle reminds himself that it's not really his business and does his injection while Stan watches gloomily from the other side of the room.

"Is Wendy mad at you?" Kyle asks when he's putting his things away, his back to Stan.

"Um. Probably, I don't know."

"She said you had a headache."

"Really?" Stan scoffs. "I mean, I did. I overslept. I just can't--" He gives Kyle a quick, charged glance before looking away again, his gaze focused on nothing in particular. "Summer's almost over. Less than ten days left here, so. I guess I'm getting lazy."

"Yeah." Kyle looks down at himself. The opposite has happened to him as the summer has progressed. He feels more efficient in his day to day routines than he ever has before, and less scared to work hard, free from his previous certainty that he would fail if he tried. "Are you, um. Excited about going back to college?"

"No."

Stan is still staring at the wall behind the examining table. Kyle turns to make sure nothing is actually there.

"I didn't want to go back, either," Kyle says, though he knows that he should stop talking, that he should just leave and go take his place at the Nutrition lab table beside Eric. "But, like. I don't know. I think it's actually going to be okay." He's envisioning late nights spent whispering to Eric on Skype, naked under the blankets on his bed, and snickering at his phone during the school day, opening new text messages that contain inside jokes and flirty emojis instead of AT&T spam and nagging reminders from his mother. Everyone at school might continue to see him as a dork who is unworthy of their attention, but Kyle will have a whole private universe of adoration at his fingertips.

"You are going to be okay," Stan says, nodding, as if he's seen the future and he knows for sure. "Go on." He flicks his chin toward the door. "Go to class."

Again, there's something deeply arousing about being given an order like this by Stan, as if Stan knows what's best for Kyle and he's not afraid to say so anymore. Despite the clumsiness of his past attempts, Kyle still has the urge to push at Stan's boundaries by attempting to disobey. He knows now that it's pointless, so he heads toward the door.

"See you later?" Kyle says, glancing at Stan uncertainly.

"I'll be here," Stan says. Kyle turns to hide his smile, glad about that. Awkward encounters with Stan are still better than wondering where he is and if he's alright.

The signs that camp will soon be ending become increasingly unavoidable as the final week approaches. On Friday there's a 'Bring Your Belt' dance where the campers are invited to wear the outfits that they arrived in on their first day of camp. Kyle is embarrassed by the concept but curious about how loose his old clothes will feel, and when he puts them on it's like trying to take shelter in someone else's skin. He hadn't really comprehended the extent of his transformation until holding his loose jeans out around his waist.

"Holy shit," Clyde says, and Kyle looks up to see him boggling at Eric, who is standing inside the wide circle of a pair of khaki shorts that are three sizes too big for him now. Eric doesn't look as smug as Kyle thought he would, just authentically stunned, as if he just witnessed a magic trick.

"But I'm still fat," he says, grabbing a handful of belly flab. "It's all saggy now." He glances up from his stomach and turns red when he sees that Kyle is looking. Kyle still hasn't seen Eric without his shirt off. Even when he leaves the bathroom after a shower he's always wearing a fresh one.

"That'll come off, too," Kyle says, pinching the remains of his own spare tire. There's less of it than he previously realized. "You just have to keep lifting and stuff once you get home."

"And stuff," Eric says, muttering this like it's a lot to ask without the promise of hopping into bed with Kyle immediately after showing off for him on the weight bench.

The girls howl with laughter when they see the boys in their baggy clothes, which are more obviously over-sized than their own before-time outfits. Henrietta's clothes are the most dramatically billowy, her black dress hanging around her where it used to cling. She's in an irritable mood despite this, and refuses to dance to the cheesy music provided in the rec center, where the lights have been turned down for the occasion. The youngest kids dance a little but mostly chase each other around in a dance-like game of tag, and the middle schoolers do something similar but more subtle, shrieking with laughter at intervals, the boys approaching the girls and then darting away again. Kyle is happy to see that Stan and Craig are not among the chaperones assigned to the event, and he dances like an idiot alongside Butters and Rebecca until the others join in. Henrietta keeps her back against the wall but accepts glasses of mango punch when Clyde brings them to her.

"You have like, no rhythm," Eric says, grinding his pelvis in Kyle's direction until Mackey calls Eric's name and shakes his head.

"I don't care," Kyle says. He's swinging his hips around wildly, his arms in the air. In his vague imaginings about how gay men live in the real world, he's always pictured shameless weekend dancing, usually to loud pop music like the kind they're playing here. He pretends he's in a club and that Eric is his rich stock broker boyfriend, that Butters and Bebe are his sophisticated colleagues from his cool job at a marketing firm, and Rebecca and Tammy are college friends who secretly envy his charmed life. It's stupid, but Kyle feels okay with being stupid tonight, and he rub-dances against Eric until it feels pretty real.

"Mr. Cartman!" Mackey shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth in a makeshift bullhorn. "That is strike two, young man! Keep it PG-rated or I'm pulling you off the dance floor, mmkay?"

Kyle laughs when Eric moves two steps away from him, his eyes still locked on Kyle's. He looks annoyed for a few seconds, then he's grinning. Kyle wants to jump on him and do some kind of dorky swing dance move, but he doesn't know how. Instead he grabs Eric's hand and twirls, feeling as if this is some kind of teen movie coming out moment, though Butters is straight and dancing ten times as flamboyantly. 

Two days later, Kyle has his last individual appointment with Mackey. He still hasn't sent the letter he wrote to his mother, but he hasn't thrown it out, and he's gone sixteen days without a rage episode, a new record.

“Well, Kyle,” Mackey says when he's got his pen out and his notebook propped on his knee, his legs crossed and his foot wagging in the usual fashion. “Before we begin, I'd like to just say that I'm really proud of you. I hope you'll agree with me that we've made some real progress here this summer, during our sessions?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “But there is one thing we haven't talked about.” 

“What's that?”

“Um. Do you, like. Know that I'm gay?”

“Well. How would I know that, Kyle?”

“Maybe Eric told you?”

“Okay, well. I'm not allowed to talk about what the other campers have told me during private sessions. That would be unethical--”

“I know, and you don't have to tell me what he said. I mean, obviously you don't, but I'm not asking you to. What I meant to say is, um, I'd like to talk about the fact that I'm gay. Because I am.” 

“Mmkay, good, let's talk about that.” Mackey puts his notebook aside, and Kyle wonders if this is meant to communicate that he's devoting his full attention to Kyle's confession, or if it's because he's made 'Kyle is clearly gay' notes many times already.

“Well,” Kyle says. He's been thinking about telling Mackey all morning, but now he's not sure why it seemed important. “I just recently became okay with this. Like, I wasn't not okay with gay people. I just wasn't sure I liked that I'm one of them. That I have to deal with it, or whatever. But now I'm glad. It sounds dumb, but, like. I'm glad I'm, uh. Me.”

“That's wonderful, Kyle.” 

“Yeah. It is. I'm gonna tell my parents, too. Not right away, because I don't want them to think Eric, like, turned me gay. I mean, that camp did.” 

“You're having a relationship with Mr. Cartman? You want to talk about that?”

“I guess.” Kyle looks at the window, out at the desert. It all seems kind of moot now, not because it's over but because everything about his sexuality and Eric's involvement with it feels neatly ordered, as if Kyle has alphabetized the book shelf where those feelings are kept. The only thing that remains out of place is Stan, who is like a paperback romance novel that Kyle wants to bury his nose in, though it's unrealistic, not necessarily helpful, and will probably end sadly. “I fell in love this summer,” he says, still looking out the window. 

“I see,” Mackey says. “Well, first love can be a very exciting experience, but it has its downsides, too. How has it been for you?” 

“Both, yeah – exciting, and sort of awful, sometimes. Like a gut punch that feels good, too.” 

“Are you feeling anxious about the end of camp at all?” 

“I was, but me and Eric talked about it, and I think – I don't know, I'm still a little scared to leave, and go back to the place that sort of made me miserable before, but I want to see what happens, too. Like, how things will be different.” 

“That's a very mature, very positive attitude. When your parents come for your commencement ceremony I'm going to give them some literature and encourage them to have you continue to see a therapist for a little while after camp ends. Do you think that would be helpful?”

“Me – wait, just me? Or are you going to tell the other kids' parents this, too?”

“Oh, yes, all the campers' parents receive the same recommendation, mmkay, just to help with the transition. So you won't feel like you're alone at the end of the experience. And I hope you'll keep in touch with the friends you've made here. Having that kind of support can make a big difference.” 

“Yeah.” Kyle imagines bragging to Eric that he ran two miles without stopping, or bench pressed more than he could at camp. They're both competitive, but it's functioned as a kind of support system when it comes to doing more reps or lifting more weight. They both like to show off. 

“How would you describe your state of mind right now?” Mackey asks, reaching for the notebook.

“Happy,” Kyle says. “In a bittersweet way, I guess. I'm sad to be going home, because this will never happen again. You know? Even if I ended up at fat camp again next summer. It wouldn't be this summer, with these people, and I'll never be exactly this version of me again.” 

“That's true.” 

“But that's kind awesome, too. In a weird way?”

“It sure is,” Mackey says, and he sets the notebook aside again. 

Talk of the storm begins on Monday. On Saturday their parents will come to collect them, and by Sunday the campers will be back in the real world, most of them preparing to restart school within a few weeks. Moods have been dipping as the end of camp approaches, but the news of a potentially dramatic summer storm system crossing over the desert invigorates everyone. Rumors circulate that there could be flooding, power outages, even tornadoes. Kyle likes storms in general and feels a little giddy over the thought of this one, as if it's a defender coming to keep their parents away and camp from ending.

"Kenny says it hasn't rained in this part of the desert for almost a year!" Butters says over dinner on Tuesday night. "And he said last time the whole valley got flooded."

"I hope they won't have to evacuate us," Rebecca says. "That would be a rather anticlimactic end to our time here."

"Bring on the flood," Bebe says. She's poking at her green beans, muttering to herself more than speaking to the group. "Who cares? I'd rather drown than go back home."

She looks up when the group falls silent, glances around at everyone and forces a laugh.

"I mean," she says, shrugging. "You know?"

"Yeah," Henrietta says. "This place is lame as fuck, but it's better than having my idiot mother in my face all the time."

"Aw, you guys," Butters says. "Remember what we talked about in group? Going back home doesn't mean we lose our progress! We're taking back new bodies and everything."

"That's not the point," Henrietta says. "This place is like a happiness assembly line in a conformist factory. The real world is the heartless wasteland that made us fat asses in the first place."

"Ooh, is that from your latest volume of poetry?" Eric says, and he snorts. "Quit being little drama queens. Anyone who doesn't use their new hotness to their advantage out in the real world is a sucker."

"Hate to break it to you," Henrietta says, "But you're still not hot."

"Hey, c'mon," Kyle says, touching Eric's leg under the table. "We were talking about the storm. Um, like. What would happen if it did flood? The valley, I mean?"

"We'd swim for the mountains," Eric says. "No problem. When shit goes down, you guys should fall in with me. I'm an expert in survival situations."

"Based on what experience?" Rebecca asks.

"You don't know my life," Eric says, glaring at her. "I've seen shit, lady. But go ahead and doubt me, that's fine. We'll see how far you get when you accept Butters or Clyde as your leader."

"Why would the leader have to be a boy? And one of the minors, for that matter? If the valley really did flood, do you know who I'd follow?" Rebecca looks around at everyone, giving them a chance to guess. "Wendy," she says when nobody does.

Eric sputters in disagreement, but Kyle has to admit she's got a point. Wendy is level-headed and good at commanding the attention of even the rowdiest campers. Kyle pokes at his remaining green beans and tries to imagine how Stan would fare in an emergency situation. Possibly not well, but Kyle would still want to be with him, though also being with Eric might make that difficult. He's distressed by the thought of having to choose between the two of them in a life or death scenario, and he shoves the rest of his dinner away.

By Thursday there seems to be a change in the air, and it's not just the cooling hint of the storm that's still headed their way. The change also emanates from the campers, not quite volatile but increasingly storm-like, as if something is brewing under the surface as well as in the skies. Tempers are short but reconciliations are swift, emotional eating has already resumed for some in surreptitious ways, and during Thursday afternoon free hour Kyle and Eric are completely taken off guard when they stroll into the cabin for their usual private time and find Henrietta in Clyde's bed, atop Clyde, who is on his back with his legs spread around her. She's wearing her black dress, bouncing shamelessly even as she turns to glower at them.

"Get out!" Clyde shouts, and Kyle backs up into Eric, wanting to flee as he notices that Henrietta's breasts are hanging out the front of her dress.

"Hey, wait!" Eric says when Kyle tries push around him. "This is -- this is our time! We get the cabin! Jesus, we've only got two days left!"

"So?" Henrietta says, still straddling Clyde as she tucks her boobs into her dress. "You're not the only one who wants some afternoon dick."

"This isn't afternoon dick!" Eric says, shouting. "This is serious, goddammit! Take your casual fucking elsewhere! Kyle and I are about to be separated! You're just using Clyde as a dildo -- find a fucking broom closet, this cabin in ours!"

"She's not using me as a dildo!" Clyde says, his face very red in what seems more like rage than embarrassment. His eyes flash in a way that makes him look uncharacteristically dangerous, despite the fact that Henrietta is pinning him to the bed. "Get the fuck out!"

"Seriously, god!" Henrietta says. "Go fuck in the shower or something, we won't stop you."

"Yes, we will," Clyde says, scowling. "Don't fuck in the shower. That's gross."

"Too late," Kyle says, though they never actually have. "C'mon," he says to Eric, trying to shove him through the door. "We'll find another place."

"Like where?" Eric asks, but he allows Kyle to ease him out of the cabin. Kyle shuts the door behind him and shudders, wishing he hadn't seen that. He takes Eric's hand and pulls him away from the cabin door before he can continue his tantrum.

"I'm pissed, too," Kyle says. "You're right, we only have two days. We have to make the most of them. But let's find someplace cool. It's not like they're going to kick us out now, with our parents practically on their way here."

"Don't remind me," Eric mutters, and he squeezes Kyle's hand. "Where can we go? Dammit, I like the bed. That's one less nap I get to take with you sleeping on me."

"Yeah, I like that, too." Kyle sighs, lamenting the fact that he won't be able to use Eric's pillowy chest for a bed anymore, however many nice texts and naked Skype sessions they have together. "Hey," he says, pausing in the middle of the path between the boys' cabin and the girls'. "How about in there? Do you think it's locked?"

"The girls' cabin?" Eric frowns as if this is less appealing than a broom closet fuck.

"Why not? Bebe and Tammy always do craft hour, Rebecca reads by the pool until Nutrition class, and Henrietta's obviously not sulking in there like she usually does. It's unoccupied. And there are beds!"

"I guess. But won't the sheets smell like. You know."

"Like what?"

"Vaginas! Period blood! I don't know, nasty girl shit!"

"Dude, stop. You're not allowed to hate women just because you don't want to fuck them. The girls are clean, and they smell fine. And it's like revenge, right? For Henrietta taking our cabin? We can use her bed!"

"Sick! What if we get herpes? She's all crusty."

"No, she's not, stop. C'mon. It'll be fun."

Kyle takes Eric's hand again and pulls him toward the girls' cabin, ignoring his moaning. He thinks of what Craig said during their meeting, that they share an affinity for risky behavior. This certainly qualifies, but Kyle doesn't care. He's only got two days left to live dangerously, without the looming presence of his mother around every corner.

The door to the girls' cabin is unlocked, but as soon as Kyle walks inside his hopes for a wild petting session in forbidden territory are dashed: the cabin is not actually empty. Bebe is lying in the bed on the far right, turning to look at them as they enter.

"Oh," Kyle says. "Um, sorry, we thought-"

"Hey, guys." Bebe smiles and sits up. Her eyes aren't red or puffy, but she seems a little shaky, as if she was at least considering a crying jag. "What, um. What's up?"

"Nothing, we were just going," Eric says. He tries to pull Kyle away, but Kyle fights free and walks toward Bebe's bed.

"Are you alright?" Kyle asks, thinking of her comment the other night at dinner. After almost three months here he knows her well enough to tell that her smile is miserably forced.

"I'm okay," she says. "Just tired of crafts. Do you guys want to hang out?"

"No," Eric says before Kyle can answer. "We're busy."

"We are not," Kyle says. He gives Eric a look that is met with angry disbelief, which is predictable but annoying. Kyle isn't so desperate to get off that he's going to leave poor Bebe alone when she genuinely seems to want company. "We can hang out," Kyle says, and he sits on the bed across from Bebe's.

"Kyle," Eric says tightly. "I need to speak to you."

"No, you don't. Eric, just--"

"Fine!" Eric says, the word exploding out of him with such force that both Bebe and Kyle flinch. "That's fine! I don't care, it's not like camp is almost over or anything! Just do whatever you want, that's fine!"

He storms out and slams the door behind him. Kyle considers going after him, but he's too irritated by this behavior. Eric has changed a lot since the start of camp, but he still has these selfish outbursts and this seeming inability to care about the other campers. Kyle waves Eric's dramatic departure off when Bebe widens her eyes at him with concern.

"He just needs to cool down," Kyle says. "He's in a bad mood because Henrietta and Clyde are, uh. Using our cabin."

"Oh, gosh." Bebe's smile returns, and it's more genuine now. "Henrietta was telling us about -- that. They've started sneaking around together. She says Clyde has a huge dick?"

"Don't look at me, I haven't seen it!"

They both start laughing, and Kyle feels the immediate relief of being able to confide in a friend again. Things are still weird between him and Stan, and he can't imagine laughing with Eric about the rumored largeness of another boy's cock.

"So Eric and you," Bebe says. "That's pretty serious?"

"Oh, I don't know." Kyle sighs and flops back onto the bed he's sitting on. Based on the neon orange nail polish on the bedside table, he guesses it's Tammy's. She's been wearing that blinding shade on her toenails for months. "Me and Eric have fun together," Kyle says. "When it's just me and him, it's usually pretty great. He's sweet to me. But I don't like the way he talks to other people, sometimes."

"Yeah," Bebe says. "He seems so immature. Sorry."

"No, it's okay. He is! But I don't think he had many friends before this. He doesn't really know how to act around people, it's weird."

"He's cute with you, though. I bet he's freaking out that you won't see each other after camp ends."

"Sure." Kyle begins to feels guilty for talking about Eric like this, and after Kyle sort of rejected him in favor of hanging out with Bebe. "Are you seriously okay?" he asks, rolling toward her.

"Uh-huh," Bebe says. "It's just Tammy. I love her, she's awesome, but she's so happy. She can't wait to go back and show off her new bod at school. I wish I felt like that. I guess I'm jealous. I know I'm going back to hell no matter what I look like."

"That sucks," Kyle says, feeling idiotic for having nothing better to offer in response. "But hey, you know what? You should just ignore all the assholes and try to do really good in school. Then you can go to an awesome college and make friends with smart people who don't act like gossipy infants."

"My grades aren't that good." Bebe shakes her head and smiles again, unconvincingly. "But whatever. I'll figure it out."

"Yeah, of course -- sorry. I sounded like my mom just then. She always has a plan for everyone's life."

"It's okay. You're probably right. I'm just being a baby."

"You're not, though. What you went through sounds awful. I'd be a mess. I'm always just banking on people at school ignoring me completely."

"Ha," Bebe says, picking at the frayed left leg of her shorts. "Are you and Eric going to keep in touch?"

They talk for the whole free hour, mostly about Kyle. He tries to steer the conversation back toward Bebe a few times, but she doesn't seem to want to discuss her own issues, so they analyze his forthcoming long distance relationship with Eric. It's nice, and as they walk to Nutrition class together Kyle wishes that he'd been more open to becoming friends with her earlier in the summer.

"We could keep in touch, too, you know," Kyle says as they approach the main building. "And I could, like, fill you in on how it's going with Eric, long distance. If you even care."

"Of course I care!" Bebe beams at him, a real smile again. "I'd love to have a gay bestie who tells me about his boyfriends. Sorry, is that condescending?"

"Nah. I'd love to have any kind of bestie, really."

During Nutrition class, Eric is still in a bad mood and avoids Kyle's eyes as they work together to make a savory and then a sweet crepe. Kyle is too annoyed to indulge Eric's oversensitivity, and he works with business-like efficiency at Eric's side, only breaking his resolve to wipe some errant cinnamon from Eric's cheek. At the front of the room, Craig is pontificating more than usual, advising them to be mindful of what they've learned here as they reenter the real world.

"You're all smart enough to know when you're cheating yourselves with poor diet choices," Craig says, pacing slowly as they scrape up the last of their sweet crepes. "You're on the cusp of adulthood, and with that will come college for most of you, and independence for all. You will have your own money, design your own meals and set your own hours when it comes to late nights or early mornings." He stops pacing and turns to face them, his hands clasped behind him. 

"Mackey will be giving you an inspirational speech tomorrow," Craig says, his tone indicating that he's not looking forward to this himself. "I'm not a fan of that sort of thing myself, but I will say one thing now. Put stock in yourselves. It's an often unfair reality that your physical body will always be your most important asset in this, the material world. Everyone in this room, myself included, knows what it's like to drag your body through the days of your life as if it's an instant strike against you in most situations. Look at the progress you've made and have respect for your own hard work. One day you're going to be staring down a vile candy bar. It's going to be placed in your hand by a co-worker, a friend, a loved one. Maybe you eat it just to be polite, or because it looks delicious, or because you're hungry. That's fine. Set the experience aside and don't follow one candy bar down the path of destruction. You will all slip up, but that's to be expected. Just never give up."

The room is silent, no more forks scraping against plates. Kyle meets Craig's eyes as his gaze sweeps the room, and the anger that used to jump into his bloodstream every time he looked at Craig is long gone. Craig doesn't return Kyle's friendly smile, but his eyes brighten slightly before he looks away, and to Kyle it feels like a small victory, as if Craig has subtly acknowledged that Kyle is one of the kids who will be okay.

"That's all," Craig says when the silence in the room persists. "You may leave as soon as you finish cleaning your stations."

They walk back to the cabins with the girls, and Kyle notices that Clyde is lingering hopefully at Henrietta's side. She seems unaffected, listening as Butters chatters about the storm, which is predicted to hit the following night. Normally they would have team building exercises now, but Wendy informed them during morning workout that they'd have extra free time after lunch. Kyle feels like their team has more or less been built, and he tugs on Eric's t-shirt when Tammy suggests that they all hang out at the pool until their final round of group therapy.

"You want to?" Kyle asks when Eric finally looks at him.

"Want to what?"

"Go to the pool."

Eric shrugs, and when they get back to the cabin he flops onto his bed instead of changing into his swim shorts. Kyle doesn't want to capitulate to this childish sulking routine, but he also doesn't want to prolong a fight on their second to last full day at camp. He checks his blood sugar and curses when he sees that he needs an injection.

"I'll be right back," he says, tossing a pillow at Eric after Butters and Clyde have trotted off with the girls. "I need my insulin. Then we should go to the pool. You know?"

Eric says nothing, and Kyle walks over to thump him with the pillow again. This time he at least turns to glower at Kyle.

"Don't give me a hard time," Kyle says, brushing Eric's hair from his forehead. Mixing a little tenderness in with his admonitions typically works, and he likes the feeling of being able to return to their typical comfort level despite disagreements. "I'm sad about camp ending, too, you know."

"You're not acting sad."

"So? I'm not that emotional on the surface."

"Ha! Says the person who rips innocent bushes in half when he's pissed off."

"That's a rage fugue, it's different. Look, just relax, okay? I'll be right back."

"Can I come with you?" Eric asks, sitting up on his elbow.

"What -- to do my injection?"

"Yeah."

"Um. Why?"

"Because I want to. Why not?"

Kyle can't come up with anything, so he allows Eric to trail him to the nurse's station, hoping this time that Wendy will turn up when he calls for a supervisor. His hopes are dashed when Stan walks through the door looking cheerful, his expression changing when he sees Eric.

"Oh - what happened?" Stan asks. "I thought you needed an injection."

"I do. Eric is just. Here."

Kyle goes for the supplies, ignoring the growing tension in the room as Eric stares at Stan like he dares him to approach Kyle. Stan lingers near the doorway looking confused.

"So, uh," Stan says when Kyle hops up onto the exam table. "Last day tomorrow. Are you guys excited to see your families on Saturday?"

"No," Eric says. He's at least staring at Kyle's syringe now, instead of watching Stan like he's an approaching predator.

"Kind of," Kyle says. "It's been weird not to talk to them for so long."

"Doesn't Mackey let you call them?" Stan asks.

"Yeah, but you can also choose not to, and I haven't talked to them all summer. My mom sent a few letters. I hope she won't be mad that I didn't call. It was just kind of -- part of the process, like, I just needed to be totally away from that world for a while."

It's weird to talk openly with Stan while Eric listens. Kyle finishes his injection and walks to the cabinet to put his things away, wanting to get Eric out of here as quickly as possible.

"Did you see the news about the storm?" Stan asks when Kyle turns. There's something sad and unhidden in his eyes, and it's like having Eric in the room has only strengthened Stan's invisible connection to Kyle. It feels glaringly obvious, like something Kyle will have to explain.

"What news about the storm?" Eric asks when Kyle just stands there like an idiot, staring at Stan.

"It, uh -- they think it's going to be pretty bad. Mackey's getting really anxious, talking about driving everyone out of the valley tonight."

"No," Kyle says, without meaning to. "I mean. That would be so lame. Where would we go?"

"I don't know. A hotel? Someplace not in danger of flooding."

Kyle leaves the nurse's station hoping that this won't happen, though he's not sure why it would matter. They're all leaving soon anyway. Eric is watching him as they head back toward the cabin, frowning slightly.

"So, what did you think?" Kyle asks.

"That guy is such a sad fuck-up."

"What -- Stan?" Kyle stops walking and frowns. "I wasn't talking about him. I meant about my injection, watching me take insulin. Since you wanted to, for some reason."

"Oh. That was pretty cool, I guess. What?"

"Why do you have to be such a jerk about everyone but me?" Kyle asks, saying this more loudly than he intended to. The question echoes ominously through empty path near the cabins, everyone at the pool or in the main building. Kyle stands his ground and waits for a response. Eric seems to be struggling to formulate one, his mouth quirking.

"I tell the truth, Kyle," Eric says, his voice clipped. "That's all."

"Yeah? Like you 'told the truth' about Jews when we first met? I feel like you're only nice to me now because I'm putting out."

It's a thought that never really occurred to him before and something he doesn't actually believe, but Eric's behavior has earned the accusation, and Kyle only feels a little awful when his face falls like he's been punched in the gut.

"You're an ungrateful bitch," Eric says, and that knocks the wind out of Kyle just as effectively. He wasn't sure how hard he could push until Eric really pushed back, and had no idea that it would hurt this badly when he did.

"You're not supposed to say bitch like that," Kyle says, weakened by this blow, his voice a little flat and small. "Remember. In group. We talked about it."

"Fuck group," Eric says. "And fuck that stupid counselor who you're always defending, and everybody else who you think I'm so wrong about, and fuck you, Kyle."

"Yeah, whatever," Kyle mutters, holding back the shake in his voice as he watches Eric storm off.

Kyle can't pay attention to the discussion during group therapy, which keeps getting sidetracked in favor of commentary on the coming storm. Eric is sitting three chairs away from him, and Kyle feels like everyone in the circle is waiting to ask why. He doesn't want to apologize to Eric, because it seems important that he wins this argument, but it feels horrible to be sitting apart from him, and if they have to spend their last day together at camp bitterly avoiding each other he'll feel like the whole summer has been a failure. He doesn't want to leave here without Eric's promises that he'll be there when Kyle needs him, by phone or Skype or future road trip.

“Everything okay?” Stan asks when Kyle goes to the nurse's station for his pre-dinner injection. Kyle shrugs and hops up onto the exam table.

“Could you do it?” he asks, holding the syringe out.

“What – why?”

“I don't know. I'm tired.”

Kyle didn't plan this, but suddenly it feels very right, not just another clumsy misstep. Stan stares at him for a moment, and Kyle thinks he hears thunder in the distance, though the storm isn't supposed to hit until tomorrow night. It's probably just a cart of supplies rumbling over the pathway outside. He takes a deep breath and holds it when Stan moves forward to take the syringe.

“Um,” Stan says when Kyle lifts up his shirt and pinches what's left of the roll at his stomach, offering it for the needle. He can hear Stan swallow, and feels like something might happen if he's brave enough to look up into Stan's eyes. Not a kiss, exactly, but something so real that he's afraid to lift his face and find out what it might be.

Stan swallows again and readies the needle. Kyle breathes out when it punctures his skin, and he stops breathing entirely when Stan's free hand comes to rest on his knee. It's not sexual, more like Stan is steadying himself while administering the insulin, but his hand is warm and Kyle feels connected to him, physically and mentally, the invisible string between them pulled very tight. Stan exhales as he withdraws the needle, and when Kyle looks up, Stan is still staring down at Kyle's lap. Fortunately, Kyle hasn't managed to get an erection this time. He's too nervous, though in another way he's also incredibly calm.

"Did you eat a banana?" Kyle asks, because he can smell that distinctive scent on Stan's breath. Stan's eyes snap up to Kyle's, and the taut thread between them unspools a bit as he steps back, nodding.

"I -- yeah."

Kyle nods and touches the place on his stomach where the needle just was.

"I can smell it," he says, and then he starts to feel dumb again, another moment between them pointlessly spent. He deflates as he watches Stan put his supplies away, afraid that this might have been their last one.

"Why'd you want me to do it?" Stan asks. He's still got his back to Kyle, and he's lingering at the medical cabinet, shifting things around inside.

"Because we might drown tomorrow?" Kyle says, trying to make this sound like a joke. Stan snorts and turns to look at him, eyebrows lifting. Kyle grins. "I don't know," he mumbles.

"We won't drown," Stan says.

"But if something does happen, like. If the storm gets out of hand or whatever. Come find me, okay? I'd want. To be with you. Okay?"

Kyle's face is getting red. Stan is still only halfway turned toward him, his hand on the open medical cabinet. He doesn't look annoyed, just a little lost and worried.

"Alright," Stan says. He turns to close the medical cabinet and rolls his shoulders a few times, sighing. "But really. Everything will be alright. Sometimes there are flash floods, but they're only dangerous if you're out in the desert, in a dry creek bed or a ditch. We're only supposed to get eight inches."

"Eight inches," Kyle repeats, and Stan turns to give him an incredulous look that makes him grin again.

"Get moving," Stan says, pointing to the door. Kyle catches the edge of Stan's smirk before he turns around to hide it. Stan reopens the medical cabinet so he can pretend to arrange things in there again. Kyle is beaming as he trots out the door, though he's not sure what he's accomplished, and dinner with Eric will be awkward at best. He's surprised when he gets to the dining room and finds his usual seat next to Eric empty, but when he sits there Eric still won't look at him. The other kids probably left it empty for him without Eric's prompting. Bebe is staring at him with a questioning look. Kyle shrugs and takes a huge bite from his turkey club with turkey bacon, though he doesn't have much of an appetite. He puts his foot against Eric's under the table, pleased when Eric doesn't move away.

"We should tell ghost stories all night!" Butters says. "Seeing as how there's a scary storm coming and so forth."

"That sounds really fun, actually," Rebecca says.

"I know some horror stories that would make you all piss your pants," Henrietta says, and she gives Clyde a look when he snickers.

"So come over," Clyde says, bumping his hand against hers hopefully. "You guys could sneak in tonight. Boy-girl sleepover."

"Fucking lame," Eric says. "I don't want to be a part of some girly-ass slumber party."

"You and Kyle could use the girls' cabin for sex," Tammy says, and she whirls to look at Bebe when she elbows her. "What?"

"No, I'm sure Kyle would rather tell ghost stories like a child," Eric says, particularly shouting this. "We broke up," he says when everyone stares at him. Kyle snorts.

"No, we didn't," he says, hurt.

"You can't break up!" Butters says. He looks sincerely fretful, stopping to turn and gape at them. "You're such a good couple!"

"Not really," Henrietta says. "Kyle, you could do better."

"Bitch, do you want a piece of me or what?" Eric says, suddenly so livid that Kyle grabs for him in a panic, not wanting him to try to slap her or anything. Henrietta just laughs.

"I'd love it," she says. "But I'd really rather not get arrested for snapping your dick off."

"Guys, stop!" Kyle says, tugging Eric's arm. "Seriously, it's our second to last night."

"Maybe the group sleepover isn't such a good idea," Rebecca says. "Or we could save it for tomorrow night, during the storm. When things have cooled down?"

"You buttholes do whatever you want," Eric says, and he pulls away from Kyle. He jogs ahead of the group, toward the cabin, holding up his sagging pants as he goes.

"What the heck did you do to him?" Rebecca asks Kyle.

"He didn't do anything," Bebe says. "Eric's freaking out because camp's ending and he's insecure."

"Jesus, just -- don't psychoanalyze him," Kyle says. "Just -- ach, god, forget it." He breaks into a run, wanting to comfort Eric and also to throttle him for acting like this. By the time he gets to the cabin, Eric has locked himself in the bathroom with the shower blasting, and Clyde and Butters arrive before Kyle can decide what to shout through the door.

Eric doesn't emerge until lights out, re-wearing his dirty t-shirt and holding a towel around his waist. Kyle watches him pull a pair of clean boxer shorts on and flicks him off when their eyes meet.

"What the fuck?" Eric says.

"You broke up with me," Kyle says, whispering, though Butters and Clyde appear to be asleep. "And I didn't even do anything."

"Oh, right, you just ditched me for some chick."

"She was upset, okay? She's a person. Sometimes I care about other people. Sorry if that gets in the way of you trying to stick your fingers up my ass."

"Ugh," Clyde says, moaning this into his pillow. "Shut up."

"You shut up!" Eric says. "We can talk if we want."

"Not about fingers in asses."

"Says who? Huh, Clyde? Is that in the camp rule book?"

Kyle laughs, and Eric turns to smile at him, but it fades quickly. He huffs and gets into bed, yanking the blankets up over himself.

"I'm done talking about your ass anyway," he says, looking at Kyle.

"Good," Clyde says. Kyle rolls his eyes. He's partly relieved that they don't have to continue this conversation in front of the other two, though he doesn't want to go to sleep angry. He considers sneaking over into Eric's bed, but cuddling Eric might make him think he's won this argument, and he's the one who's being difficult for no reason. Kyle rolls onto his side and listens for thunder or coyotes in the distance. There's nothing; the night is eerily silent. Even Butters and Clyde are quiet in their beds, not a single wheezing breath between them.

In the morning, no one arrives to fetch them for a sunrise workout. Kyle wakes slowly and sits up to see Butters doing pushups on the floor. Clyde and Eric are still asleep, their blankets pulled up high to block the sunlight that's creeping in past the curtains.

"Special breakfast this morning!" Butters says when he pauses to look at Kyle, panting. "Kenny told me-- orange pineapple smoothies and everything!"

"Cool," Kyle says. His stomach hurts. It's finally arrived, though it still doesn't feel real: his last full day in camp. Tomorrow his parents will arrive, and he'll probably never visit this valley again.

When Token comes to fetch them for the special breakfast, Clyde and Eric are still asleep. They rouse grumpily and follow the others out to meet the girls. Eric looks like hell after what was probably a poor night's sleep, and Kyle feels responsible. He lingers close, peeking at Eric as they head toward the main building. Eric doesn't seem amenable to Kyle's attentions and is emitting a general aura of aggressive surliness.

As they're eating breakfast, Mackey walks in to announce that there will be a 'photo opportunity' in the auditorium after the meal.

"Like an optional opportunity?" Henrietta asks.

"Mmm, no," Mackey says, frowning a little. "It's mandatory. But it'll be fun! It's part of a special surprise from yours truly."

"Ew," Tammy says, quietly, and Rebecca snickers. Bebe doesn't look up from her omelet, which she's barely touched. She looks a little green, even worse off than Eric. Her hair is limp and looks unwashed, tied back in a careless bun.

Kyle tries to make himself as presentable as he can for the group picture, which is staged just like the one they took on their first day here. He's certainly thinner, but he still feels unphotogenic and lumpy compared to Token, who comes to the stage to tell them they have the whole afternoon free before the pool party and cookout. Butters raises his hand.

"How about the storm, though?" he asks. It's already cloudy outside, and the wind has picked up. "Won't that ruin the cookout?"

"If it rains, we'll have our camper farewell party inside," Mackey says. "Until then, please enjoy your free activity time! You've worked very hard this summer -- well, I won't spoil my speech for later. I'm sure you're all wildly anticipating it." He laughs at his own joke, and Wendy half-heartedly joins in. "So, yeah, feel free to hang out in any of the activity rooms, and you Tier Three campers can have cabin time if you like. But I'm going to have to insist very firmly that nobody leaves the grounds of the cabin area. I don't even want you kids going as far as the golf course, understand? When the rain hits, the desert becomes a dangerous place. But you'll be perfectly safe inside. I've confirmed that with the rangers."

"The rangers," Tammy says. She seems excited by the prospect. The neighboring State Park has a tiny ranger station that Kyle has seen from the golf course, but he's never seen any actual rangers coming or going.

The group onstage begins to break apart. Kyle hops down to the theater floor, hoping Eric will follow. When he doesn't, Kyle leaves the auditorium and then the main building, walking alone. He feels strange and isn't headed in any particular direction. A tumbleweed crosses the path ahead of him and he stops in his tracks, watching it roll away until it crashes into the side of a supply shed.

Back in the cabin, he packs his things and waits for Eric to show up and passionately pin him to the bed. He's sure it will happen eventually. At lunchtime he hesitates, not wanting to miss the passionate pinning, but finally he's too in need of insulin to wait any longer.

"Where's Stan?" he asks when he finds the actual nurse inside the nurse's station, taking inventory at the medical cabinet.

"Who?" she says.

"The black-haired boy who usually -- helps me. With my insulin."

"Oh, the counselor. They're all getting ready for storm. Bringing in the deck chairs from the pool, I think."

"Okay. I mean. Thanks. For telling me."

Kyle does his injection while she continues her work at the cabinet. She doesn't seem interested in his readings and doesn't fetch Stan's notebook to mark them down. Kyle supposes that's over now: he's survived. Soon he'll be back in the real world, where he can do his injections in private. The thought depresses him, and he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for Eric and keeping his eye out for Stan as well. He hasn't found either of them by the time the thunder starts coming in from the west, beyond the hills. There's a damp, clean scent in the air, and the clouds overhead have darkened. Kyle wanders to the pool and finds Kenny tying a flapping plastic cover down over the giant outdoor grill.

"So much for the cookout!" he says when Kyle approaches. "Ya'll will be eating in tonight."

Thunder booms, louder than before, and this time Kyle sees a flash of lightning. Kenny whistles and stands up, grinning.

"I love storms!" he says, shouting, though the wind hasn't gotten quite loud enough to warrant it. There are more tumbleweeds now, scattering across the camp's walkways like obstacles thrown in the path of a video game character. "You'd better head on in to the main building," Kenny says. "I think Mackey might have you guys sleep on the floor in the gym if shit gets real."

"Real?" Kyle looks up at the sky. The clouds are moving fast. "Like, how real?"

"Aw, don't worry. We'll keep you guys safe."

"I'm not worried."

Kyle takes his time on the way to the main building, surveying the sky for lightning. So far he's been unable to spot the clear line of a bolt streaking down, but the flashes are getting more frequent. When he reaches the front door of the main building Craig is standing beside it, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Am I in trouble?" Kyle asks.

"No," Craig says. "I'm just watching the storm."

"Oh, yeah."

Kyle stands beside him. Tumbleweeds and lesser debris skitter across the sand as the thunder grows louder. Out over the hills, a dagger of lightning splits the sky, violent and fast. It makes Kyle shiver, and he can feel it in his bones when the thunder answers, sounding like an angered opponent that the lightning strike has challenged.

"Well, here it is," Craig says. He flicks his head toward the door. "Get inside."

"How about you?"

"I'll be in shortly. Go on, Mackey's taking a headcount for safety."

Kyle obeys, appreciating the fact that Craig let him stay outside as long as he did. It was respectful, a kind gesture from a fellow risk-lover. His mood is improving as he heads toward the main rec room, where he can hear the hyperactive voices of the assembled campers. When he arrives, Wendy is telling the younger kids to calm down. The older kids are gathered in the back corner, near the room's single television set. It's typically used for inspirational films that are shown during free hour, but for the past few days Mackey has allowed it to be tuned to the Weather Channel. Eric looks away from the TV as Kyle approaches, and the relief on his face makes Kyle grin.

"There you are, fuck!" Eric says, scrambling up from the floor, where he'd been sitting beside Butters. "Did you -- where were you? Getting an injection?"

"Yep," Kyle says. "What's this? You're actually glad I'm not out there getting struck by lightning?"

"Don't be stupid," Eric mutters. He puts his hands on Kyle's shoulders and squeezes, looking down into his face. It's not fair, but the pathetic need in his eyes makes Kyle want to forgive him, nuzzle his cheek, and ride out the storm in the comfort of his arms.

"I'm okay," Kyle says, quietly. "Are you?"

"Course I am. Rumor is we're all going to have to sleep in the gym, on emergency cots. Sucks."

"We can sneak off to a shadowy corner if you want."

Eric starts to smile, then looks worried, like Kyle's sudden kindness might be a trick. 

"You're not mad at me?" he asks.

"I kinda am, but it's our last night. I don't want to spend my last night being mad. You know?"

Eric nods and looks down at Kyle's chest. His hands are still on Kyle's shoulders, kneading them a little. Kyle wants to be kissed. It's something about the storm building outside, the end of camp coming, the way Eric can't seem to let go of his shoulders. He's working up the nerve to peck Eric's lips in front of the others when Mackey comes in and calls the room to attention.

"Everyone, eyes up here for a minute, mmkay?" Mackey is holding a clipboard, looking much more nervous about the potential storm damage than Kenny did. A powerful thunderclap makes the windows quiver and rattle, and kids shriek with delight when the lights flicker. "Settle down!" Mackey says. "I need to do a headcount before we pass out snacks. I don't want to alarm anyone, but from now until the storm passes we're operating in emergency mode. This means everyone is to stay here in the main building, together, until it's safe to go outside again."

"Shit," Tammy says. "Bebe's still at the cabin."

"Better tell Wendy," Kyle says. "She can go get her before the rain starts."

Tammy jogs off to do so, and Kyle turns back to Eric. He still looks tired, and sad, and a little hopeful. Kyle leans up to kiss him on the cheek, then checks around to make sure no one is staring. He hasn't seen Stan since he arrived. Will he hunker down with Craig in his private room? Kyle wonders if the whole staff is required to stay with the group during the emergency. They should be, he thinks.

Kyle settles down with Eric to watch the storm on TV, though the better show is through the windows. They have a good vantage point to see both, their backs propped against the wall, and Kyle clutches at Eric when the skies blacken and the frequency of the lightning flashes increases. He's not scared, but curling up with Eric increases the cozy feeling in the rec room, brightened by the voices of the other campers and the excited chatter from the Weather Channel. Kyle goes a little tense when Stan walks in with Kenny, but he keeps hold of Eric's arm, not wanting him to feel rejected again. He finds himself worrying about Stan's feelings, too, which is ridiculous. As if Stan cares that a fifteen-year-old boy who has an embarrassing crush on him is cuddling with someone else during the storm. Craig walks in and speaks to Mackey, and Kyle's grip on Eric tightens as he watches Stan watching Craig. They both look concerned about something. When Wendy returns she's breathless, as if she's run from the girls' cabin. Bebe isn't with her.

"I think something's wrong," Kyle says. Everyone turns from the TV except Clyde and Henrietta, who are ignoring the others and whispering together about something. "Are you sure Bebe was in the cabin?" Kyle asks Tammy.

"Yeah," Tammy says. "But -- oh, shit." She brings her hand up to her chest when she notices Wendy, who looks panicked. "Maybe she took off. She's been weird lately."

"I think she's clinically depressed," Rebecca says. "She puts up a front for the counselors because she doesn't want to be medicated."

"She's afraid happy pills would make her gain weight," Tammy says, nodding.

"She's probably just hiding in the girls' bathroom," Eric says, frowning when Kyle pulls away from him. "Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna ask -- maybe we can help look for her."

"That's a good idea!" Butters says, hopping up. Rebecca and Tammy stand, too. Eric stays in place, looking gloomy again. Kyle doesn't have the patience for his moods right now; he'll reinstall himself at Eric's side when he knows Bebe is safe. He heads toward the counselors, thinking of what Bebe said about drowning.

"We can't stand here talking about it," Craig is saying to Mackey when Kyle approaches. "They're called 'flash' floods for a reason. If she's outdoors somewhere we need to find her now, before the rain starts."

"Can we help?" Butters asks, and Kyle flinches when the adults turn to look at them.

"We're seriously worried," Tammy says, her voice beginning to tremble. "Should we search the building or something?"

"I'm afraid she might be outside somewhere," Rebecca says. "Her state of mind these past few days has been grim."

"Shit," Stan says. Kyle looks at him, and he feels that invisible pull when their eyes meet, so strongly now that he actually takes a step toward Stan.

"We can't stand here deliberating, Mackey," Craig says. "We need to split up and search."

"Okay, alright." Mackey seems at a loss, tucking his clipboard under his arm and then pulling it out again. "Dammit. Kids, you check the building. Girls, go up to the second floor. Boys, check down here, in the empty classrooms and the restrooms. Counselors, I need you to split up and check the surrounding area. The pool, the golf course, the trails--"

"I'll use my car," Craig says. "The rest of you should check places that can't be seen from the road." He's interrupted by a boom of thunder that shakes the building, and Kyle is annoyed now by the happy shouts of the younger kids. "Be careful," Craig says when the power flickers, and when it snaps back on Kyle sees him looking at Stan. Then he's gone, hurrying down the hallway toward the front door.

"Let's go," Rebecca says, grabbing Tammy's hand. Tammy nods and threads her fingers through Rebecca's as they leave to check the second floor.

"I'll take the golf course," Mackey says. "Token, you look around the pool. Wendy, check the cabins again, all of them. Kenny, Stan, can you check the trails?"

"Sure," Stan says, and Kenny salutes. Kyle follows them out of the rec room, Butters trailing behind him as everyone else splits off to search their designated areas.

"We should come with you," Kyle says, jogging to keep up with Stan as he heads for the back door that leads out toward the camp's trails and the State Park beyond. Stan looks over at him and frowns.

"No," he says. "You and Butters search here, on the first floor. Like Mackey said."

"But if she's somewhere in here then she's already safe, and the trail area is huge -- four sets of eyes will be better than two!"

"He's right," Kenny says, and Butters nods. Stan groans.

"Alright," he says, glancing back toward the rec room. "But no splitting up once we're outside. The four of us stick together, and as soon as the rain starts Kenny is bringing you two back here."

"What about you?" Kyle asks. His heart is pounding, and his shoulders jump when thunder rattles the walls again.

"Let's just find her," Kenny says before Stan can answer. "I've seen her walking by herself on the trails before. I bet she hasn't gone too far."

"Oh, geez!" Butters says. "I hope she's okay!"

Kenny pushes the back door open. It's immediately ripped out of his hands by the wind, and it bangs hard against the building, as loud as a gun blast. Stan throws his arm out across Kyle's chest, halting him. Outside, the dark clouds overheard are swirling together like the contents of a witch's cauldron, the wind tearing through the valley so violently that even the biggest cacti are trembling. Lightning seems to flash between every breath Kyle takes.

"Fuck," Stan says, his arm still braced across Kyle's chest. "Kenny! We can't take them out there!"

"It's okay!" Butters says. "Bebe needs us!"

"Yeah, please?" Kyle says. He reaches up to touch Stan's arm, gently lowering it. "Let us help. She's our friend." The risk-loving thing that lives in him is fully activated, pumping adrenaline through his system. It feels like a direct order to get out there, into the storm, where Bebe needs help.

"It'll be alright!" Kenny says, shouting this as he walks outside. "I'm a level four paladin! I've got shields against lightning!"

"Jesus," Stan mutters, watching Butters trot out after Kenny as if he's comforted by that. "He's high."

"Seriously?" Kyle says, annoyed. Stan sighs and takes Kyle by the arm.

"Let's do this if we're gonna," he says, and then they're outside, the wind blowing the door shut hard behind them.

They follow Kenny and Butters toward the trailhead, dodging the prickly brambles and trash bits that are being whipped about by the wind. Stan lets go of Kyle's arm but stays close, bumping against Kyle when the wind seems to blow them around, too. Kyle has never felt less weighted to the earth, almost wisp-like in the eye of the storm. It's a bizarrely appropriate finale to his time at fat camp. He looks back toward the main building and is startled when it seems very far away already, but sticking close to Stan makes him feel like he could withstand several tornadoes, as if the gravity that's been slowly pulling them together is more real than anything the weather might throw at them. He turns his attention to the foothills around the trail, hoping to spot Bebe before the rain starts.

"Jesus," Stan says when the thunder overhead sounds like a cacophony of bowling balls cracking the surface of a marble floor. Kyle laughs nervously and continues scanning the desert, seeing no sign of Bebe.

They walk onto the trail and stick together, everyone looking in all directions. The landscape appears ominously empty, all of the lizards and jackrabbits in hiding. As they approach the palm oasis the wind rips several fronds from the trees, and sand streaks through the air. Kyle closes his eyes against this onslaught, stumbling into Stan's path.

"This is crazy," Stan says, steadying Kyle. "I can smell the rain -- we need to get back."

Up ahead, Butters shouts. Kyle opens his eyes, shielding them with his hand in case more sand whips past. Butters is rubbing at his face, staggering unsteadily until Kenny catches him. Stan and Kyle walk toward them and find Butters in tears, moaning.

"He got sand in his eye!" Kenny says.

"I'm alright!" Butters says. "Ah -- but – hell's bells, that stings--"

"Take him back," Stan says, pointing to the main building. "We'll walk to the start of the park's trail and then follow you."

"I got a bad feeling she's out here somewhere," Kenny says. Kyle has the same sinking sense of dread, and he feels like Stan must have it, too, or he would be going back with Butters and Kenny. They stand together and watch Kenny helping Butters back along the trail, holding his shoulders so he won't trip.

"You should go with them," Stan says, though he seems to know that Kyle won't. Kyle shakes his head.

"I want to find her," he says. "Let's head toward the park. I can smell the rain, too."

"Once it starts--" Stan stops there and groans. "This is insane. We're only going as far as the park's entry sign, okay?"

"Okay, yeah." Kyle flinches when lightning seems to circle all around them, illuminating the landscape with an alien glow that's quickly gone. The thunder that follows is directly overhead.

"Stan?" Kyle says, and he hates how small and lost he sounds, though he's almost glad for it when Stan reaches over to take his hand in response.

"Why'd she run off, anyway?" Stan asks.

"She doesn't want to go home." Kyle squeezes Stan's hand, afraid that something awful might have already happened to Bebe. Stan squeezes back. They aren't looking at each other, not wanting to take their eyes off the surrounding desert long enough to miss Bebe. Kyle feels like he's in a dream, like the ones he's had since puberty, facing a survival situation with a heroic boy at his side, someone mysterious and brave who will pull him along past the danger. But Stan is more of a man than a boy, and the danger here is real. Kyle can feel it in the charged air, goosebumps rising on his arms as they wander deeper into the desert. Stan curses and stops walking, turning back toward the camp. Kyle hears it a few second after Stan has: rain coming in fast, sweeping toward them in a blurry curtain.

"Fuck," Stan says, squeezing Kyle's hand again. He turns toward the State Park and then back in the direction of the main building. They're in a low-lying area toward the end of the trail, a shallow basin between the end of the camp's property and the boundary of the State Park. Probably the worst part of this desert to be in during a flash flood.

"What do we do?" Kyle asks, shouting, and that's when the rain catches up to them, the clouds opening overhead. It's colder than Kyle expected and he's momentarily blinded by the intensity of it, as if someone has flipped off the single lamp in already dimly-lit room.

"Shit!" Stan says. "Look -- there!"

For a moment Kyle thinks Stan has spotted Bebe, but he's pointing toward the ranger station.

"Let's run," Stan says. Puddles are already forming on the trail. "Maybe the rangers are there. I don't think we could make back to camp in time."

Kyle nods and runs alongside Stan, still holding his hand, and he realizes that by 'in time' Stan means 'to avoid drowning.' The trail is already disappearing as rainwater accumulates, and Kyle's sneakers have transformed into soggy anchors, slowing him down. As they near the ranger station he notices that there are no Jeeps parked out front and no lights on inside. They go barreling toward it anyway, flashes of lightning seeming to freeze-frame the sheets of rain as the downpour continues.

The ranger station is a small, cottage-like structure, and the empty parking lot out front is under several inches of water by the time they arrive there. Kyle realizes that he's breathless and tired only after they stop running, which is an entirely new phenomenon. Stan tries the front door and curses when it finds it locked. He bangs on it a few times.

"What do we do?" Kyle asks again, and when he hears how reedy his voice has become he forces himself to calm down, though calmness might not actually be in order right now. Stan pushes his soaked hair off his forehead and looks around for help that's not coming. "We could wait it out on the roof," Kyle says, wanting to be helpful. "Once the water gets high enough?"

Stan laughs, which both relaxes and irritates Kyle. They're not holding hands anymore.

"Dude," Stan says. "The water won't get that high. I'll just -- uh." He turns toward the door and looks it over, nudging Kyle backward. Once Kyle is out of the way, Stan kicks the door hard, his boot connecting with the doorknob. After two more kicks the knob splinters off and the door sags inward. Stan shoulders his way in and reaches for Kyle. "C'mon," he says. "We'll worry about damage to government property later. Let's ride out the storm in here."

Getting out of the rain is an immediate relief, and Kyle takes a deep breath full of water-free air as he walks ahead of Stan, down a narrow hallway that leads into an office area. Stan closes the door behind them, stuffing the busted doorknob back into place as much as possible. He wipes his face clear and walks past Kyle into the office, looking around. The rain is pelting the roof and the windows, but Kyle believes Stan: they'll be safe here. He thinks of Bebe, still missing and maybe out there somewhere, and his relief evaporates. Either the air conditioning inside the ranger's station is blasting or he's in shock; he can't stop shaking.

"C'mere," Stan says, beckoning to an alcove along the back wall, near the station's small kitchenette. Kyle walks past the rangers' desks and joins Stan there, almost laughing when he sees Stan patting an exam table like the one in the nurse's station. "I guess this is the first aid corner," Stan says. "Hop up here, I'll find a blanket."

"I don't need a blanket," Kyle says, though that sounds nice. He sits on the exam table and hugs his arms to his chest, watching Stan rummage through the cabinets on the opposite wall. Stan finds a stack of blankets and pulls all of them out. They're large and rough-looking, and the one he offers to Kyle smells like moth balls. Kyle stares at it, unable to stop trembling, chills traveling from the back of his neck down to the base of his spine. Stan makes an impatient noise and unfurls the blanket for him, stepping close to wrap it around his shoulders.

"There you go," Stan says, muttering this. He's avoiding Kyle's eyes, tucking the blanket around him and rubbing his shoulders with it, then the back of his neck. "You're freaking me out, dude. Are you okay?"

"Just -- Bebe--"

"Shit. I know, but maybe she's fine. We don't know. Maybe she was hiding back in the main building all that time."

"I don't think she was, Stan. She – she's been upset, she wanted to be alone--"

"Shh, okay. Kyle, just. Fuck, here." He unfolds another blanket.

"You're shaking, too," Kyle says.

"I'm just -- it's cold in here."

"Yeah, well." Kyle takes the blanket and wraps it around Stan, spreading his knees around Stan's waist and pulling Stan closer, using the blanket as a kind of lasso. Stan goes tense but doesn't move away. Kyle wants to sit up straight, to lift his eyes to Stan's, and he's not sure why he can't make himself do it. Though he can see lightning flash from the corner of his eye, the crack of thunder that follows still takes him off guard. He gasps and jerks, tugging on the ends of Stan's blanket and yanking Stan down toward him without really meaning to. Stan's nose bumps against his, and when Kyle sneaks his eyes up to Stan's he feels like lightning has shattered through the roof and down his spine. They're not connected by a string anymore: they're inside a bubble, breathing the same air.

"Kyle," Stan says, whispering this like a warning when Kyle presses closer, touching his cheek to Stan's. "Please don't do that."

Stan sighs and nudges his nose against Kyle's cheek, maybe trying to push him away. There's something so intimate about the gesture that it does the opposite, drawing Kyle in like he's been magnetized. Stan sighs again, sounding both weary and agitated. Kyle kisses his cheek, and it's nothing like the peck he planted on Eric in the rec room. Touching his lips to Stan's skin makes Kyle hard, his cock getting so full, so fast, that he feels light-headed. He pulls back just enough to look into Stan's eyes. Stan is shaking his head very slowly, rainwater dripping from the ends of his messy hair. He doesn't move away when Kyle kisses the side of his nose.

"You're so--" Kyle says, trying to think of anything to say that's not 'I love you,' which is all that keeps coming to mind. His voice is broken and his thighs are trembling, though he doesn't feel cold anymore. "Stan," he says, and he closes his eyes again before kissing Stan's mouth. His lips are dry and motionless against Kyle's, but the choppy rush of his breath is very warm, and he doesn't move away.

"Please, dude," Stan says, murmuring this against Kyle's mouth. "Don't -- please, I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. It's okay. I -- just want--"

Kyle slips his arms inside Stan's blanket, hugging his chest. He presses his face to Stan's neck and feels his pulse pounding there, hears him swallow. Stan puts his hands on Kyle's knees, which are still spread around his waist. He's shaking, too, breathing into Kyle's hair.

"Please," Kyle says.

"Please what? Kyle--"

Stan grunts and pulls back. When Kyle tries to kiss him again, Stan grabs his face and holds him in place.

"Stop," Stan whispers. He's still close, and not just that: he's still inside their bubble. He could leave if he wanted to, but he's lingering, his face hovering over Kyle's.

"I can't stop," Kyle says. "I'm fucking scared."

"I know." Stan strokes Kyle's cheeks with his thumbs, very softly. "I know, Jesus."

"Why won't you hold me?"

"I can't -- I mean, I am, kind of--"

"I want you inside me," Kyle says, going for broke, and he frowns when Stan seems to suppress a laugh. "I'm serious, you fucking asshole!"

Stan does laugh then, and it dies in a moan, his face coming to rest against Kyle's. Kyle sniffles and closes his eyes. His hands are on Stan's chest, on his soaked-through Mackey polo. He shifts his thumbs until he can feel hard nipples, his cock pulsing inside his pants.

"Don't," Stan says.

"Why not?"

"You fucking know why, okay? You're fifteen. Jesus, you've been -- all summer -- I'm so fucked up about this."

"This?" Kyle says, nuzzling at him hopefully.

"You," Stan says.

"You could have me right here," Kyle says, trying to press his crotch to Stan's stomach. "I'm a virgin, um. You'd be. My first."

"You think I want to fuck you?" Stan looks hurt. He pulls back, his hands sliding off of Kyle's knees. Kyle is still holding onto Stan's blanket, not letting him get far. "I don't want that,” Stan says. “Okay? I think I was worried that I did, but now I know I don't. That's a relief."

"You're fucking mean," Kyle says, still rubbing his face on Stan's cheek. He smells so good, like rainwater and that bed that they sat on in his room, emanating a warmth that makes Kyle wants to curl up and sleep, preferably after his dick goes off in one way or another.

"I'm not mean," Stan says. He pulls Kyle's blanket up and uses it to dry his wet curls. "I'm not saying I don't -- like you. Think about you. Wonder what you'll be like when you grow up."

"I'm not some little kid. I've done a lot of shit, okay? Everything but full-on fucking."

"That doesn't – Kyle." Stan groans. He sounds far more irritated than aroused. "You're perfect how you are," he says, catching Kyle in mid-plummet with those words. "Okay? You don't need to prove anything about how grown up you are or what you can do in bed or anything like that. You're fucking perfect, and you rip my heart out every day. Every day I've been here, right the fuck out of my chest. And I'm not even mad about it."

Kyle makes a sound that might have been a word, but there's no chance of anything intelligible forming on his tongue. He surges forward to press his mouth to Stan's, lapping at him and whining needfully until Stan's lips part, maybe in protest. Kyle shakes his head, begging with his whole body, and he sucks in a shocked breath when he feels the tip of Stan's tongue against his, soft and unsure. Kyle can taste it on Stan's lips, his tongue: he wants this, he wants Kyle so much. Maybe not to fuck, but this feels bigger and more permanent than that, like something unbreakable that's pulling them both out of the real world, the bubble around them armorizing. The kiss is slow and unsure on both ends, but when their tongues slide together they both exhale with relief, everything in Kyle going white hot, his cock rock hard and leaking. Stan grunts and holds Kyle's thighs still when he tries to hump himself against Stan, and the feeling of Stan's hands easily holding him in place is almost enough to make Kyle come without finding friction.

For a moment Kyle thinks the sound of a door opening is something that's happening inside him, everything that's been pent up over fifteen years of his lonely lifetime tumbling out past the door that Stan has just ripped off its hinges, but then there are wet footsteps in the hallway and Stan is leaping away from him.

"Hello?" someone calls. It's a girl's voice. Kyle sucks in his breath and pulls the blanket over his erection when he recognizes her.

"Bebe!" Stan says. He lets his own blanket drop to the floor as he grabs one for her. She's soaking wet, her hair half-covering her face like a sodden veil, and by the time Stan gets to her with the blankets she's broken into tears. Kyle hops off the examining table, still heady from what just happened with Stan and barely grasping this new development. Slowly, the relief comes to him: Bebe is okay, though she's also sinking to the floor with sobs.

"I'm sorry," she says as Stan sinks down with her, holding the blanket around her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know--"

"Okay, it's alright. Don't be sorry." Stan looks up at Kyle, communicating without speaking that he wants Kyle to take over in the holding-Bebe department, and Kyle hurries to do so, leaving his own blanket behind. "Nobody's mad at you," Stan says, sitting back on his knees when Kyle pulls Bebe into his arms, letting her cry there. "We were just worried, but you're okay. You're alright now."

"Yeah," Kyle says, though he knows it's not that simple for her. Bebe holds her hands over her mouth as if she's trying to silence herself. "And you can cry if you want," Kyle says. "We don't care."

"I'm sorry," she says again, hiding her face against Kyle's chest. Kyle tightens his grip on her and looks up at Stan. He seems stricken, flexing his hands as if he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Are you warm enough?" Stan asks, half-rising. "Do you want another blanket?"

When Bebe doesn't answer, Stan goes to get one anyway. Kyle takes it from him and wraps it around her. Stan sits beside them looking worried, and Kyle rubs Bebe's back until her crying quiets to some protracted sniffling and a few breathless gasps. She peels her wet hair from her face and sits up onto her knees, her hand pressed to her eyes. Stan hops up to get a rubberband from one of the desks and a bottle of water from the rangers' small fridge.

"Drink this," he says, passing the water to Kyle, who opens it for her. "And, uh." He holds out the rubberband when Bebe turns to look at him. "For your hair, if you want."

"Oh," she says, taking it. "Thanks." Her voice is hoarse, and after she's put her hair back she gulps from the water bottle. "Sorry," she says again, peeking at Kyle.

"You really don't have to be," he says. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I didn't mean to scare everyone," she says. "I just. I guess I didn't care what happened, but then when the rain started these puddles started swirling around my ankles, and then the puddles turned into creeks, and the creeks started moving really fast, and I didn't -- I didn't want to die. I guess that sounds stupid."

"Doesn't sound stupid," Stan says, sitting beside them again. "I know, like. That feeling. When you feel like you don't give a fuck, because everything's too hard, but then you jam yourself into a worse place and you just want to get the hell out of there, and back to all the stuff that seemed too hard before."

"Yeah," Bebe says softly. Kyle looks at Stan, hoping that the worse place he's talking about isn't a reference to their kiss. Stan smiles and Kyle smiles back, still not sure what he's thinking.

Stan uses the rangers' phone to call Craig and tell him that they've found Bebe. After the news has been delivered, the three of them sit in their blankets on the floor and talk while the rain continues outside. Bebe and Kyle trade stories about the misery of high school, and Stan has some of his own.

"I was the closeted quarterback," Stan says, and Kyle is proud of him for coming out to Bebe, who only raises her eyebrows a little with surprise. "It's not as fun as porn makes it look," he says, and she laughs. Kyle gets butterflies in his stomach, pleasantly embarrassed by this. He's watched that brand of bad gay porn, too.

Kyle starts to feel lousy as his blood sugar dips, and Stan finds a box of Kettle Korn in one of the rangers' desk drawers. There's a microwave in the kitchenette, and he returns with the popped corn and some Minute Maid orange juice from the fridge. The food and drink help a bit, but Kyle is still feeling drowsy and lightheaded when the rain finally stops. Stan goes to the window to survey the water level.

"We'll wait for the rangers," he says. "Craig said he'd radio to tell them we took shelter here. They'll be here with a Jeep as soon as it's safe for them to drive."

"I'll be alright," Kyle says, because Stan is looking at him with concern.

"I bet Eric is freaking out," Bebe says.

"Probably," Kyle says, and he glances at Stan again, but he's gathering up their empty drink bottles, avoiding Kyle's eyes. They're well outside of their bubble now, but Kyle doesn't feel like it's been popped, though he's also not sure how they could ever get back into it. Tomorrow might be the last day they ever see each other, and they won't likely have an opportunity to be alone together again. Kyle isn't even sure Stan would want one.

The rangers arrive around dusk, when the flood waters have calmed enough to allow their Jeep to reach the station. Kyle is very glad to be headed back to the camp for an insulin dose. He's worried when they drive past the nurse's station, but the nurse is waiting for them at the main building, and she ushers Kyle to a fridge in the staff room where she's stored his insulin. After overseeing his injection she gives Kyle and Bebe a cursory examination before they're allowed to go into the rec room, where they're assaulted with the relief of the other campers and the counselors. Eric actually looks as if he's been crying, but he's relatively curt with Kyle in front of the others, only touching his shoulder a few times. Wendy presents them with dry clothes and escorts them to the restrooms, urging them to change before they catch a cold.

“Are you alright?” Kyle asks Bebe after they've changed, when they're headed back to the rec room. She gives him a shaky smile and shrugs. 

“I was so glad when that door opened,” she says. “At the ranger station. I was thinking – maybe that's what it'll feel like when I leave home next year, for college. Like a way out of the storm. I just have to keep my head above water until then.” 

“And maybe take antidepressants in the meantime?” Kyle says, still worried. Bebe laughs.

“I don't know,” she says. “Maybe.” 

Kyle continues to feel ill for the rest of the evening, though he's not sneezing or shaking and his blood sugar has normalized. Cots have been set up in the gym, and they're allowed to eat their dinner there, sitting in circles on the floor. Kyle sticks close to Eric and keeps an eye out for Stan, but he seems to have disappeared. Craig is also missing. As darkness falls outside the skies remain quiet, the wind dies down, and the whole ordeal in the desert again feels like a dream Kyle had. He touches his lips absently, wanting to feel something there that's been left behind.

"You're quiet," he says to Eric, who is stretched out on the cot beside Kyle's, reading an Iron Man comic that he's 'borrowed' from one of the younger kids. "Do you want to, uh. Go somewhere and talk?"

"Nah," Eric says. He turns a page in the comic, the first time he's done so in ten minutes.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Sure seems like you are."

"I'm not." Eric gives Kyle a pleading look. "Just let me read this, okay?"

Confused, Kyle lies down on his cot and rolls onto his side, watching Eric read the comic. Three months ago, Eric would have been spilling over the side of the cot. He's still filling it completely, but he looks good, healthy. Kyle isn't sure he can give himself any credit. He didn't actually make Eric into a better person, or make up for the loneliness and heartbreak he's endured at home. It was stupid to think that he could. He considers sitting up and having a last look around for Stan, but he knows that Stan isn't here. Kyle would feel it if he walked in. Stan is probably off with Craig, having a farewell fuck. Unless they plan to continue being boyfriends after the summer. Kyle is fairly confident that he'll never see Stan again after tomorrow, despite their moment in the ranger's station. By tomorrow Stan will probably regret that he let Kyle kiss him, if he doesn't regret it already.

Kyle falls asleep and don't even stir until dawn. He feels like he's waking from years of slumber as he blinks at the cot next to his, watching Eric put on his shoes. Eric gets up without looking back at Kyle and walks toward the back door of the gym, creeping quietly. Wendy and Token are asleep near the front door, curled up together with their backs to the wall. Kyle picks up his shoes and tiptoes across the gym floor, checking behind him to make sure no one has awakened. Once he's slipped outside, he puts his shoes and hurries to catch up with Eric.

The sun isn't up yet, but the dawn has begun to glow faintly, and much of the standing water has run off into lower parts of the valley near the trails and beyond the camp's borders. Kyle sees Eric walking ahead of him on the path, which is still partly flooded. Eric hears Kyle's footsteps and turns, but he doesn't wave or pause when he sees Kyle following him, just continues on to the pool.

The pool is flooded, too, spilling out onto the deck. There's a palm frond floating in the shallow end, and leaves from the surrounding shrubs are scattered across the water. Kyle opens the gate at the fence and watches Eric walk over to the diving board.

"What are you doing?" Kyle shouts, not sure he should get any closer. Eric seems to be in some sort of sleepwalking trance, and he's been weird since yesterday.

"Shh!" Eric says. He pulls his shirt off and throws it onto the wet pool deck. He doesn't look bad without his shirt, just pale and hefty. He's got maybe four chest hairs, which makes Kyle grin. Eric narrows his eyes slightly and strips down to his boxer shorts. Kyle is both afraid and a little hopeful that he'll take those off, too, but instead Eric climbs up onto the diving board. He runs to the end, bounces once, and cannonballs into the overflowing pool.

The splash he sends up is impressive, and the previously iron-flat pool rocks in its wake. Kyle walks closer, hoping that Eric isn't going to do something dramatic like stay underwater until Kyle jumps in with him, though he's already planning on jumping in with him. He takes off his shirt and throws it at Eric when he surfaces.

"Why are you throwing your shirt in the pool?" Eric asks, still attempting to give Kyle a stink-eye that Kyle doesn't quite buy. Kyle shrugs.

"Whatever," he says. "I do what I want."

"That's stupid."

"You're stupid," Kyle says, stepping out of his pants. "Why are you being mean to me?"

"I'm not! You are! To me!"

"Not really?"

"You keep running away," Eric says. He goes underwater and swims toward the shallow end. Kyle stands with his toes curled around the edge of the pool and considers whether or not this is true. Maybe, a little. He did kiss someone else, but Eric doesn't need to know that. The connection Kyle has with Stan seems to exist in a half-dreamed parallel universe, and the thing he has with Eric is scarier for existing in the real world. His potential relationship with Eric is exciting for the same reason, because it's a kind of currency he can actually trade on, something that might still have value outside the boundaries of this camp. He still can't believe Stan actually kissed him, and with tongue. Remembering it will never not make him smile stupidly, seemingly at nothing. 

Kyle jumps into the pool wearing his boxer shorts. The water is much colder than usual, and once he's in it he feels like he was sleepwalking before and has just awakened. He swims underwater, toward Eric, with his eyes open. He can hold his breath for a long time; they've been timing it all summer. Once he made it to almost three minutes, and was later disappointed to hear from Token, who looked it up for Kyle on his phone, that the world record is for over twenty minutes. He lingers near Eric's belly in the shallow end, and feels weightless when Eric lifts him up, above the surface of the water. 

“So,” Eric says, holding Kyle there like a fish he's caught, his hands under Kyle's arms. “Now you've got what you wanted.”

“What?” Kyle says, afraid that he somehow found out about the kiss with Stan. 

“Me without my shirt. You kept telling me to take it off. Well. Here you go. Is it everything you dreamed of?” 

Eric is asking sarcastically, angrily, but Kyle can hear the sincere question in it. He nods. 

“We should have sex,” Kyle says. He reaches out and flattens his palms over Eric's nipples, which are on the big side and hard from the cold water. Eric snorts. 

“Oh, god,” he says. “This again.” 

“I'm serious this time. Our parents are on their way here, you know? I know we don't have to do it now, I know I'll see you again. But I want to try it. End of camp doesn't feel real enough. Even that storm – I keep feeling like I'm dreaming. Maybe I need a dick in me to convince me otherwise.” 

“You're full of shit,” Eric says, and he grins like he loves that about Kyle. They kiss, Kyle's legs wrapping around Eric's waist, and it feels good to be spread wide like this, to try to contain the shape of him. 

“Please?” Kyle says, and he catches Eric's bottom lip between his teeth. He holds it there gently, nibbling at him. “We could do it in the boys' locker room.” 

“You're crazy,” Eric says. He's got a wild, hopeful look in his eye. “There's not even – condoms, lube, anything. No bed.” 

“I don't need a bed. Or a condom – I've, uh. I looked at your medical chart, in the nurse's station.” 

“You – what?”

“Back before I really knew you. Trusted you, I mean. But I was already thinking about your dick. Eric, please? I want to, um. Feel it, you know? Inside me, like a secret. On the way home, in the backseat of my parents' stupid car. I want to still be feeling it when I get back to my house, my bed. It'll make it all real. Like something I can take with me.” 

“Kyle—” Eric moans and kisses him, tasting of pool water. He's breathless when he pulls back, his hands moving down to support Kyle's ass. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I want that, too, um. Really – yes.” 

They get out of the pool and speed-walk to the boys' changing room. Kyle prays the door with open. It does, and behind them camp is still and quiet, everyone sleeping through the sunrise that's obscured by the lingering clouds. Inside, the changing room is damp and dark, and Kyle is shivering. He's nervous, but not scared anymore: he meant what he said about wanting to take this at the last possible minute, so he can bring it all the way home with him. It wasn't part of his plan until a few minutes ago, but the storm that was building all summer has moved through him and left a kind of clarity behind. Eric's hands shake on Kyle's hips when they pause near the lockers to kiss, and Kyle presses himself to Eric's puffy chest, moaning at the feeling of skin on skin.

“Lie down,” Kyle says, pointing to the carpeted area outside the showers. “I'll find some sunscreen.” 

“Sunscreen?”

“For lube.” Kyle gives Eric a quick kiss on the lips and goes over to the shelf-lined mirror where a crusty bottle of SPF 45 has been sitting all summer. It still feels about half-full. When he returns, Eric is lying his back on the floor and looking as vulnerable as an overturned tortoise, his face bright red. This look is much improved when he strips his wet boxer shorts off and shows Kyle his cock, which is hard and slick with precome that's leaked down the shaft. Kyle hurries to step out of his own boxers, kicking them away. 

“Are you sure?” Eric asks again when Kyle straddles him. 

“Yeah,” Kyle says. He drops down to sit on Eric's hips, feeling invincible and excited, because somehow this is the perfect time to do this. “Are you?” Kyle asks, pressing his ass back against Eric's dick. 

“Fuck yes,” Eric says, almost sounding like he'll cry. Kyle grins and rubs his erection on Eric's belly, his ass cheeks spreading around Eric's cock when he pushes his hips back. They both groan at the sensation, and Kyle crawls up to kiss Eric, humping against him when Eric's hands slide down to his ass. 

“Fingers,” Kyle says, pressing the bottle of sunscreen to Eric's shoulder. Eric nods and recaptures Kyle's mouth as he fumbles the sunscreen open, and they're still kissing when Eric's slick fingers slide between Kyle's ass cheeks. It's a pleasantly familiar sensation now, and Kyle pushes back against it, huffing. He feels a little unhinged, but in a good way, like the door inside him that Stan threw open won't be closed again. 

“No condom,” Eric says, staring up at Kyle as he slicks his cock with the sunscreen. “That means. I'm gonna – I'm gonna come inside you, okay? Can I?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says, embarrassed by how much he suddenly wants that. “I want you to. Leave it in me – I want to feel it leaking out, all day.” 

“Jesus, fuck – don't make me come yet!”

“I'm not?”

“Yeah, you – almost did, shit, okay.” Eric takes a few deep breaths and closes his eyes. “Let me think about something gross for a second. So I can last.”

“Um, okay. Don't tell me what you're thinking of—”

“Clyde's shit bag, and Henrietta's sweaty tits—”

“Eric!” 

“Sorry, sorry. I want you to last, too!”

They both start laughing, nervous energy building as they twitch against each other and kiss in sloppy intervals, breathing hard. Then Eric positions his wet cockhead against Kyle's hole, and they both hold their breath, eyes widening. 

“Ready?” Eric asks. His voice is raspy and small. Kyle nods. 

“Let me,” Kyle says, though Eric is just lying there holding his dick and doesn't seem to have a plan of action. “I'm, um. I'll just sink down on you. It might take me a while.” 

“Take all the time in the fucking world. Jesus, Kyle. I want this to last forever.” 

“Me too,” Kyle says, and he means it, because when this is over so is camp, so is summer, Kyle's first time, and so many things he'll never get back. He's okay with losing this, because it seems to fit with letting go of everything else. He leans down to press his face to Eric's hot cheek, reaching back to hold himself open a little wider. This is going to hurt, but he feels ready for it, curious enough about this particular sort of pain to want it. 

At first it seems easy, just like two of Eric's fingers sliding in, but as soon as Kyle tries to sit down on that feeling it's too much, wider and weird, totally different. He thinks maybe it's like a band-aid and he should just get the first hard push over with. His legs are getting tired and wobbly, trembling as he crouches up over Eric, who is breathing in shallow pants through his nose and looking like he's afraid this will be over any minute. Kyle grunts and shoves himself down onto Eric's cock, a scream ripping out of him as he realizes that was the wrong move. 

“Fuck!” Eric says, grabbing Kyle's arms. “Are you – what – you okay?”

“Gh _ahh_ , no – yeah, shit. You're fucking – big, and – ahh—”

“I'm not that big. Fat, you mean? You want it out?”

“No, just. Fucking – ow. Hang on.” 

“I'm – I'm hanging on, but. Maybe you're too small. You feel fucking – tight, Kyle. Jesus, what if—”

“Nghh, okay. Shut up for a second. Fuck!” 

Kyle exhales and presses down again, whimpering as he seats himself completely, his vision swimming when he blinks down at Eric. He tips forward and puts his head on Eric's chest, trying to intelligently absorb the oddity of what's going on in his ass right now. But there's nothing intelligent about it: he feels too full, stretched to bursting, and it stings and burns but he doesn't want it to stop, because there's something good about it, too, just an edge of fascinating sensation that's worth chasing. He pants out his breath and relaxes a little, lets Eric lift his head and examine his face. 

“Jesus,” Eric says. “You're all pale. Kyle—”

“I'm always pale. Kiss me, it's okay.” 

Straining up to kiss Eric improves the feeling of being imperfectly connected to him, and Kyle hisses as he adjusts, searching for a good angle. Eric is whining, drooling a little when Kyle pulls away from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Kyle says, rocking his hips very tentatively. “You're really in there. God, it feels all slimy and big and fucking _weird_.”

“Hey,” Eric says softly, frowning. “I told you, I'll take it out if you hate it.” 

“I don't hate it! It's kind of awesome. God, sorry. I don't know how to describe it.” 

Kyle decides he should stop talking, and he leans down to kiss Eric again. He bounces once and winces when it hurts, then tries it again, moaning, because it almost feels good, almost. He opens his eyes and has to hold in a laugh when he sees the look on Eric's face. 

“What?” Eric grunts.

“You're looking at me like I'm the Sistine Chapel.” 

“Huh? What does that mean?”

“I – never mind.” Kyle clenches around Eric and kisses his cheek when he whines. 

“I can't believe you called me slimy,” Eric says. 

“It was a compliment. It feels good – and it's the sunscreen that's slimy, not your dick. You gonna come?” Kyle asks, wiggling on him. He had imagined riding Eric hard, but this timid squirming is all that seems possible for the time being. Eric sighs and nods, shifting his hips. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You're soft, though.” 

“Yeah, it's just – too much, I can't come like this yet. I'll practice when you come visit me.” 

“Ha. Okay.” 

“I'm serious, Eric! Your dick is in my ass – I'm losing my fucking virginity to you, here. You think that doesn't mean anything to me?”

“Well, what the hell does it mean, Kyle?” Eric asks, looking like he might burst into tears. “This isn't how I pictured it with you!” 

“What'd you picture?”

“I don't know. Music playing. Fireworks going off. Making you come.” 

“You complaining?”

“No! Just-- I wanted it to be perfect, goddammit.”

“It is,” Kyle says, bending down to kiss him again. “Are you okay?”

“Am I – Kyle, I'm in your ass! Yes, I'm okay! I'm fucking great!” 

Kyle laughs hard, squeezing around Eric in spasms as he does. Eric grins, throws his head back and comes with a sort of pained hiccup that Kyle wasn't expecting. He licks Eric's neck, kisses his face, pets his hair. He's a little sad that he couldn't feel come splashing on the walls of his ass, but the way Eric's dick swelled and twitched inside him was pretty hot, a memory to take home and masturbate to. 

“Are you still okay?” Kyle asks when Eric pants up at him, his eyelids heavy and his hands shaking on Kyle's sides. Eric nods, and for a while they stay like that, until Kyle's hips start to ache. He can already feel come sliding out of him, and disconnecting hurts. He slumps onto Eric, glad to be done and sad that they can't try it again later. 

“Will you be sore?” Eric asks. 

“Yeah. That was kind of the idea, though. I liked it. Did you like it?”

“Uh-huh.” Eric puts his arms around Kyle and rubs his shoulders, his back. “You're shaking. And your shirt's still in the pool.” 

“I don't care. Let's go back to the cabin. I want to take a hot shower and go back to sleep.” 

It doesn't actually work out that way. When they get back to the cabin Butters and Clyde are already there, packing their things. Kyle packed the day before, when he was waiting for Eric to burst in and pin him to something passionately. He's glad it happened later, today, and that he was the one who did the passionate pinning. He changes into clean clothes and sits on his bed, watching the others pack and exchanging secret looks with Eric. They're connected now, by a moment in that locker room that they mutually agreed to make sacred, and nobody can ever change it. Kyle likes the feeling, and even likes the sting in his ass. Feeling cold come puddling into his boxers in random dribbles is less sexy than he thought it would be, however. 

“This sucks,” Clyde says, falling onto his bed when his bags are all zipped up. “I finally found a girl who'll have sex with me and she lives in Indiana.” 

“You could be pen pals, though!” Butters says. “On the internet, I mean.” 

“I can't stick my dick in an email, Butters.” 

“I suppose that's true,” Butters says, looking sad. “But you could write each other love poems! Henrietta's a real good poet.” 

“Christ,” Eric says. “I'll bet.” 

“Shut up,” Clyde says, turning to glare at him. “She is.” 

The parents start arriving shortly after breakfast. Kyle still hasn't seen Stan. It's possible that he's already clocked his last hours here and left for home, but Kyle feels like he would have said goodbye first. Token and Wendy are greeting the parents and bringing them into the auditorium, where Mackey will give his closing remarks. Kyle sits near the back with Eric and turns every time the doors open, both afraid and hopeful that the next set of parents will be his own. He pokes Eric's shoulder when he recognizes his mother. She's even prettier than Kyle remembered, wearing a fitted coral dress with matching pumps.

“Dude,” Kyle says. “Your mom.” 

“Aw, fuck.” Eric gives Kyle a pleading look, as if Kyle can decide for the both of them that camp isn't really ending. “You want to meet her?” Eric asks, mumbling. 

“Sure,” Kyle says, though he kind of doesn't. He never got a chance to shower and he's afraid he still smells like sex. This will bother him much more when he faces his own mother. 

“Mom!” Eric bellows, and she whirls around to wave at him, smiling. Kyle knows that her name is Liane, that she was once a beauty queen, that she has no friends in Nebraska and used to date a child molester. He's not particularly happy to turn Eric back over to her. 

“Sweetheart!” she says, rushing toward them. Eric groans and hoists himself up to receive her enthusiastic hug. She's laughing and petting him like he's a lost pet, and she looks comically tiny with her arms around him. “Look at you!” Liane says, pulling back to beam at Eric. “My big man – you're so – ooh, look at your muscles!”

“Mom! Sick, stop! This is Kyle,” Eric mutters, gesturing toward him. “He's, uh. My friend.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Kyle says, not exactly surprised that Eric isn't out to his mother, despite how open he was about being gay once he arrived at camp. Liane shakes Kyle's hand, grinning at him like he's a pageant judge. 

“You won't like me saying this,” Liane says, turning back to Eric. Her eyes are sparkling with tears, and she takes Eric's hands in hers, squeezing them. “But, Eric. You look so grown up, so different. You look like your father.” 

“Goddammit, Mom.” Eric pulls his hands free and rubs one over her face. “Great.” 

“He worked really hard this summer,” Kyle says, wanting to rescue him, to hug him and hold his hand. He feels almost possessive. Liane's eyes flick to Kyle, her smile still plastered on. 

“Of course he did!” she says. “My Eric, gosh, look at that jawline! You'll have to beat the girls off with a stick back home.” 

“Yeah, right.” Eric touches his jaw and glances at Kyle. 

“You look amazing,” Kyle says, somewhat resenting the fact that he can't call himself Eric's boyfriend in front of this woman. It's possible that Butters or one of the other campers will run over and say something to give them away, but most of them are preoccupied with greeting their own families. Butters is in tears, holding on to his tiny blond mother while his stern-looking father regards Butters with approval, nodding to himself as if deciding he's gotten his money's worth here. Bebe's parents have arrived and are talking to Tammy's while the girls look on, shoulder to shoulder. Clyde is being hugged by a crying man in glasses who must be his father. He talked about his dead mother a lot in group, toward the end of the summer, and remembering this makes Kyle's heart grow suddenly heavy as he half-listens to Liane dote over Eric. 

“KYLE!” 

He turns toward the door and sees his mother barreling toward him, her arms outstretched. She looks almost grief-stricken at the sight of him, already near tears. Kyle grins and stands in place, surprised by how happy he is to finally see her again. She makes a kind of strangled-chicken sound when she reaches him, hugging him hard and rocking him in her arms.

“Oh, bubbeh, oh my god! Let me look at you, oh, Kyle, you're too skinny, they worked you too hard—”

“They didn't, Mom, it's okay – hey!” Kyle grins when his father and Ike come through the auditorium doors behind her. He wasn't sure if they'd come, and he's glad they have, no longer embarrassed to be seen here. For a few minutes everyone in his reunited family is talking at once, both of Kyle's parents lamenting that he looks 'skinny' while Ike teases him for his hair, which has become a full-on fro. 

“What is that sunscreen I smell?” his mother asks, sniffing at Kyle's shoulder. “That's not the Neutrogena I bought you, the SPF 50.” 

“It's – it's fine, Mom,” Kyle says, turning to look for Eric. He's staring miserably down at Liane, who is still gushing at him like he's a fellow beauty queen. “I just – left mine in the cabin this morning, so I borrowed some from a friend. It's the same SPF.” He'll never forget the truth, that it was SPF 45, Coppertone, in a blue and white bottle: his virginity loss lube. 

“Wow, damn,” Ike says, stepping back to look Kyle over. “How many pounds did you lose?”

“Um, I don't actually know. They teach us not to focus on numbers. It's, uh. A lifestyle change.” 

“Oh, that's wonderful!” Sheila says, holding onto Kyle's arm. “Isn't that wonderful, Gerald?”

“Sounds like a healthy approach,” Gerald says, looking a little emotional himself. “We really missed you at home,” he says, patting Kyle's wild hair down. “Did they treat you okay here?”

“They obviously starved him,” Ike says, and Kyle shoves him.

“I do think it's a little extreme!” Sheila says. “Did you have any incidents with your blood sugar? We got a progress report from the administration every two weeks, but you didn't write, you didn't call—”

“I know, I'm sorry. I was just really, like. Immersed in the process. And no, and I didn't have any health scares.” The cuts on his hands from his attack on the shrub have healed. He wonders if that was mentioned in a progress report. 

“Campers,” Mackey says, taking the stage with a microphone. “Parents, siblings, friends and family? Could I have everyone's attention, please? I think we've got the majority of our audience here now, mmkay, so if we could all start finding seats, I'll give the commencement address in just about five minutes.” 

Kyle turns to look at Eric and Liane. They're sitting near the back, apart from the others. He thinks of directing his family to sit with them, but what would he say, what would be the point? Eric meets his eyes and Kyle gives him a lost sort of expression, trying to communicate that he doesn't know what to do next. Eric shrugs, and Kyle understands that he's saying it's fine, sit wherever. That Eric doesn't especially care about meeting Kyle's family is something Kyle finds attractive about him. Suddenly Eric seems less like the wibbling boy who has followed Kyle around all summer, more like a man who just fucked him and now has to get back to his life and his own responsibilities, familial and otherwise. Kyle guides his parents and brother into a middle aisle, wondering if this is the magic of having Eric's come drying inside him: that they can understand each other more completely now, and read each other's minds from across a crowded room. He likes this, though the ache in his ass is less desirable now that he has to endure it in a stiff auditorium chair, between his parents, listening to his mother remark with alarm that she can see the bump of his wrist bones now. 

“You could always see those,” Kyle says, looking down at his hands. “Couldn't you?”

“Well, I'm not sure I know,” Sheila says, and she takes a deep breath, grabbing for Kyle's arm. “I don't know what I was thinking, sending you away like this. I don't think I could bear it again!”

“Guess that means I won't be going to college,” Kyle says, and he grins when she gives his cheek a scolding pinch. 

Mackey's speech is heartfelt but overly long, and Kyle tries not to fidget too much in his seat, afraid that his mother will somehow discern that he's itchy and raw from being fucked with inferior sunscreen. He keeps wanting to turn around and look longingly at Eric or search the seats for Stan, but he keeps his eyes on the stage. At the end of the speech Mackey calls the campers up one by one to accept a sealed envelope bearing their name. The order they're called is alphabetical, and when Kyle is returning to his seat with his envelope, Eric's name is called. He turns to watch Eric cross the stage, struck by how separate and yet connected they are, and how painful it is to feel both at once. 

“Please open these envelopes later, when you have some time for quiet reflection,” Mackey says after all of the envelopes have been handed out. “These are a personal farewell gift from me, and included in each package is a directory with the names and numbers of the other campers in your age group, so that you can all keep in touch. And I hope you will – every year I find that the peer bonds that are made here at camp are just as important as me and the counselors are in shaping your new lives. Now, please, before we all head out to our cars and give each other hugs and well-wishes, let's all stand up, campers and parents and all in attendance, and just give ourselves and each other a big round of applause.” 

Kyle feels a little stupid clapping for himself, and embarrassed by his mother's enthusiastic loudness and Ike's somewhat sarcastic cheers, but the noise of everyone's celebration settles at the center of his chest and shakes him like the thunder did yesterday. He's no longer afraid that he'll walk out of here and revert to a friendless, angry little boy. He turns to look at Eric, but someone's tall father is blocking his view.

People start streaming out of the auditorium, and then everyone is walking out of the building altogether, into a blazing heat that feels vindictive, as if it's arrived to shame the day before, the arrogance of the storm that thought it could change the desert. The puddles have mostly dried up. Kyle tunes out his mother's incessant chattering and searches the crowd that's gathered near the parking lot where all the parents' cars are waiting. He's looking for Eric, for Stan, for Bebe. Butters comes out of nowhere and tackles him with a tearful hug.

“I can't believe it's over!” Butters says, and it sounds cheap out loud, but that's all Kyle can think, too. 

“We'll keep in touch,” Kyle says, though he doubts it. Butters smiles and nods, and Kyle wonders if he's smarter than he looks, if he knows this is actually the last time they'll meet. 

He finds Bebe next, and hopes his parents won't get the wrong idea when he falls gladly into the hug she offers. He intends to come out to his mother and father soon, and that will probably involve telling Ike, too. He already wants to confide in Bebe about this, and can see that she's holding back similar gushing feelings that are too messy for this goodbye. 

“I'll email you,” she says. “I opened the envelope – there are email address on the directory thing.” 

“Oh, good – mine's, uh. Did they list it as 69ingchipmunks?”

“Yeah. What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

“Uh, it's a long story. What else is in the envelope?”

“Pictures, and a letter from Mackey.” Bebe glances over Kyle's shoulder. “Your mom is cute.”

“Really? Thanks, I guess. Are you – is yours being, uh. Okay?”

“She's – whatever, she says I look good. Eric is staring at you.”

Kyle turns and sees this is true. Eric is lingering on the periphery of the group with Liane, who looks as if she doesn't understand why they can't just get in the car and go already, the heat wilting her perfectly coiffed hair a bit. Kyle gives Bebe one more hug, one more promise to email her soon, and she heads back toward her parents. Kyle walks over to Eric, glad that his parents are momentarily distracted by Mackey, who Shelia insisted on speaking to personally. Kyle holds Eric's gaze as he approaches, pressure squeezing in around his heart. Eric is stoic, but Kyle can see that it's forced, that he's dangling over the cliff of his life back home in Nebraska, razor sharp realities down below. 

“We're going,” Eric says, gesturing to the cars with his thumb. His voice is weird, deeper and flat. “So. I guess. Goodbye.” 

“Eric,” Kyle says. “I—”

Eric huffs and grabs Kyle, hugging him so hard that Kyle's feet leave the asphalt. Kyle buries his face against Eric's neck, smelling sunscreen there. For a moment his chest gets so tight that he's afraid this tightness will squeeze some tears out of him, but he makes himself think of his phone, which is waiting in the car for him along with his laptop, according to his mother. He knows Eric is serious about staying in touch – Skype sex, dick pics, text messages – but Kyle is going to miss this so much: letting Eric squeeze the breath out of him and not even caring who sees. 

“Right,” Eric says, releasing him. He sniffs and looks up at the sky. Kyle does, too, and sees a large bird sail by overhead. It's some kind of hawk, or maybe a vulture – a winged silhouette against the sun, too far away to identify. Eric leans down to put his lips against Kyle's ear. “I'm gonna drive down to Colorado on winter break,” he says, whispering. “To see you. Even if I have to steal her car, and sleep in it for week. That's three and a half months away. September, October, November. Part of December. Okay? That's not too long. Right?”

“Right,” Kyle says. He flinches, wanting to kiss Eric's cheek, but stops himself. “I'll be waiting,” he says, holding Eric's gaze in a way that he hopes is kiss-like. “We'll talk a lot,” Kyle says. “Every day.” 

“Every hour,” Eric says, and he grins like it's a joke, but Kyle wouldn't mind that so much. It sounds pretty good from where he's standing, a few minutes away from leaving this place behind. 

“Eric, hon?” Liane says. “We really need to get on the road. It's a long drive home.” 

“Coming, Jesus,” Eric says, not looking at her. He's staring at Kyle, his shoulders lifting and falling, lifting again. “I'll text you in five minutes,” he says, his voice tightening up. Kyle nods.

“Sounds good.” 

They hug again. Kyle doesn't want to let go. He forces himself to picture his mother and father watching this, Ike snickering and preparing jokes about Kyle's butch boyfriend. He finds that he doesn't care about any of that and holds on tighter, his hands clawed into Eric's t-shirt. Liane's tiny sigh of impatience finally allows him to uncurl his fingers and step back. Eric winks, turns, and follows his mother away. When Kyle turns back to the crowd he sees his family watching him. Ike looks amused, Gerald confused. Sheila doesn't look surprised, concerned, or even particularly curious. She gives Kyle a little wave, as if he's on a neighboring island and she hopes he'll swim back to hers. 

He has quick goodbyes with Tammy, Clyde and Henrietta, and hugs Rebecca while her family lingers near their mini-van. They all look like they're dressed for church, her unsmiling brother in a sweater vest despite the weather.

“Your brother's kind of hot,” Kyle says, and Rebecca laughs. 

“He's also an asshole,” she says. “But I guess that's kind of your type. No, but he's not like Eric. He's less direct. Your brother looks nothing like you, meanwhile.” 

“He's adopted.” 

“Oh, right. You mentioned that in group. Well, I'm off to get fat again. That will show them. Write me emails, okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle says. “Do you really want to get fat again?”

“I really do. I feel like it's who I am. But don't let that stop you from staying skinny.” 

“I'm not skinny. I don't want to go back to gnawing on frozen pizza alone in my room, though.” 

“That was my favorite story from group, all summer.” Rebecca smiles and pats Kyle's shoulder. “That's the kind of thing that makes a person specifically endearing, you know?”

“I guess, but I'd rather not be endearing that way anymore. How's this: I lost my virginity in the boys' locker room this morning, with Eric and a bottle of old sunscreen. Now I've got to ride all the way back to Colorado with post-virginity loss discomfort, if you know what I'm saying.” 

“That's pretty endearing!” Rebecca says, her eyebrows shooting up. “Lucky you. Lucky Eric! Maybe I'll have some sex between now and the return of my gut.” 

“Tell me about it if you do,” Kyle says. “Though not in detail.”

“Certainly. I'd keep it tasteful.” 

Rebecca heads off with her family, and Kyle realizes that his parents are some of the last still waiting for their child to finish saying goodbye. He scans the emptying parking lot, though he's lost hope of finding Stan. Even Token and Wendy have drifted off, and Kenny is probably still sleeping somewhere. Mackey is talking to the parents of one of the younger kids, looking as if he's about ready to wrap the summer up himself.

“Well?” Sheila says, approaching Kyle as Gerald and Ike drift toward the car. “Are you ready to get on the road? We can stop for lunch at In & Out Burger. Unless that would, ah, compromise your new lifestyle?”

“I can have a burger,” Kyle says. “It's fine.” 

“What's wrong, honey?”

“Nothing, just.” Kyle turns to look at the main building, the paths that lead to the cabins, the nurse's station in the distance. “I guess we should go,” he says, because he can't stand here all day waiting for Stan, who might be back on the west coast already, or asleep in Craig's bed. 

“My special little guy,” Sheila says when Kyle turns toward the car, feeling gutted. She puts her arm around him and kisses the side of his head. “Oh, Kyle. You have to let me cut this crazy hair.” 

“Can't I go to the salon? I mean – a barber?”

“I suppose so, but it's such a waste of money when I'm perfectly capable— have I ever ruined your hair?”

“Well, ruined, no, but—”

Kyle pauses at the edge of the parking lot when he hears someone running. He has no reason to hope, but as he turns around he feels sure, and he breaks into a grin when he sees that he's right: it's Stan, running toward him. He's coming from the golf cart, which is parked on the path near the lot, Kenny waving from the driver's seat. Stan is wearing normal clothes, a gray t-shirt and jeans, beat-up sneakers. He's carrying something square that glints in the sunlight as he comes closer.

“Sorry,” he says, thrusting the thing out toward Kyle. He's winded from running, and he glances at Sheila nervously. “Hi, sorry,” Stan says when Kyle takes what he's offering: a CD in a clear plastic case. The CD has FOR KYLE written on top in black sharpie, FROM STAN on the bottom. “I'm a counselor,” Stan explains when Sheila stares at him, awaiting an explanation while Kyle examines the CD. “That's just – just a little goodbye present. Some songs.” 

Kyle can't make his voice work. He wants to kiss the CD case, wants to hug Stan and ask for his email address, but he can't do any of that with his mother watching. Stan might get in trouble. This is already probably some kind of protocol violation, a counselor giving an unauthorized gift to a camper.

“Thanks,” Kyle says when he looks up from the CD case. Stan puts his hands in his pockets and nods. He's got bags under his eyes. Kyle wonders if he drank last night, and if he will again tonight, and if it's even possible that they'll ever see each other again. “This is – thank you.” 

“That's very nice of you,” Sheila says, sounding only slightly disapproving. “C'mon, Kyle, we need to get a move on.” 

“I've got to go,” Kyle says, as if Stan doesn't know that. Stan nods and takes his hands from his pockets, then puts them back in. 

“It was a – I'll – you, um. Good luck with everything,” Stan says. He looks like he's falling apart inside, trying to hold it together, but he's also more beautiful than he's been all summer, wearing his street clothes and sort of shimmering in the heat like a mirage that Kyle can't risk reaching for.

“Good luck to you, too,” Kyle says. “I'll listen to the CD. I mean, of course I will—” He meant 'right away' and possibly 'every day,' at least for the foreseeable future.

“Oh, it's. I hope you'll like it.” Stan glances at Sheila again and smiles uncomfortably. “Well. Goodbye. Drive safe.”

He turns for the golf cart, and Kyle wants to call him back, but he has no excuse to linger. His mother takes his arm and prods him toward the car. 

“That was a counselor?” Sheila says, sounding incredulous. 

“That was – yeah. A counselor. My favorite one.” 

Kyle is dazed as he climbs into the backseat of his parents' car. He turns on his phone and plugs the headphones from his iPod into his laptop. It's strange to have his technology at his fingertips again, and as soon as the phone boots up he gets a notification: a new text message from a number he doesn't recognize. He knows who it's from before opening it. 

_I hate this. Kyle. You're not here._

_Yes I am_ , Kyle sends back, after he's added this number to his address book, filed under 'Eric.' _I'm right here._

_It's not the same._

_But I can still feel you_ , Kyle sends, glancing over at Ike to make sure he's not peeking. 

_That'll only last a few days, at best. My dick's not that big._

_I'm not just talking about your dick_ , Kyle types, his face heating. _I can FEEL you. Can't you feel me? I'm right here._

 _I guess. Mostly I feel like someone ripped all my organs out. I might puke._

_Don't puke. I love you._

Kyle feels weird sending that, suddenly aware that it's true. He loves Eric, and Stan. He wants to wrap them both up in adjacent bubbles and protect them, but he can't do that. The best he can do is send text messages, and for Stan even that's out of the question, though Kyle supposes Stan is really too big and sturdy to need saving by the likes of him. He glances over at the CD. 

_I fucking love you, Kyle_ , Eric sends back, and Kyle can hear Eric's voice when he reads this. He smiles down at his phone, embarrassed and glad. _I wasn't going to say it because I didn't think you would._

_You think I'd go all the way back to Colorado with ass pain from someone who I didn't love?_

“Kyle,” Sheila says, turning from the front passenger seat. “What are you typing so furiously back there?”

“Nothing. Just some texts.” 

_I gotta go_ , he sends before Eric can respond to the message about ass pain. _Mom's asking questions. I'll text you when I get home._

He puts his phone away and opens his laptop, popping his headphones into his ears. He's a little afraid to listen to Stan's CD, because it's possible their tastes in music won't align at all. Kyle never much cared for Stan's songs around the campfire. He puts it in and waits for it to load up, hits play on the first track. The track name is 'file01,' and there's no artist listed. 

It's a guitar track, acoustic and instrumental. At first it sounds like the soundtrack from the last hopeful scene of an uplifting movie, but then something deeper seems to flow into it, a kind of nostalgic swell, subdued happy with a hint of sad. Kyle stares out the window as they head up the steep hills that lead out of the valley, and once they're high enough he turns to look back at the camp in the distance. He feels like he's leaving some sliced off part of himself back there, and remembers Mackey's instruction to open his envelope during a moment of personal reflection. 

He unclasps the flap on the envelope and pulls out four items: a glossy group photo from the first day of camp, another from the last day, the directory with everyone's contact information, and a letter addressed to him in Mackey's handwriting. Kyle pulls the letter open as the second track on Stan's CD begins. This one has lyrics, and melodious humming behind the chorus. 

Mackey's letter is fairly generic, and Kyle assumes that most of what he has to say was said to all of the campers, with individual names filled in the blanks. He's proud of Kyle's progress, believes in his future, and hopes that Kyle will cherish the memories of his time spent at camp. Only one part really resonates with Kyle, and he spreads the two pictures out across his laptop keyboard after he's read it. 

_I include the group's 'before' picture in your exit package not as an unfavorable comparison to the 'after' picture, because I don't want you to look at this older picture and feel ashamed. I think this first picture should make you even prouder than the one from the last day of camp. You've grown and changed, but the boy in this first picture was with you every step of the way, and since he had the hardest journey of all, the one that was just about to begin, I think you should look back on him with nothing but admiration and respect. Don't cast your day one self away as someone from the past who was lesser than you are now: he was amazing and he still is. He is you, Kyle, and out of all of the lessons you learned this summer, the most important, in my view, is that you learned how to love the boy who, here in this picture from your first day, had every step of your three month journey still weighing on his shoulders. I hope you will cherish your memory of his strength – your strength, proven now – most of all._

Kyle puts the pictures away and stares out the window. He's not sure what his most cherished memory of camp will actually be. He doesn't want any of it to feel like a memory yet, doesn't want to let it go. He closes his eyes and skips back to the first track on Stan's CD. It's sad because it sounds like the end of something beautiful, and because Stan put it in his hands in place of a goodbye letter. The song is like a marriage of the group's before and after pictures: hope and closure rolled together, like the sky clearing after a storm. Kyle listens to it again, and again, and it's still playing when they've crossed over the hills, headed toward Nevada. They'll spend the night in Utah before driving home, to break up the sixteen hour drive. 

Eric and Liane are traveling in the same direction. Kyle imagines ending up at the same Utah motel and running into Eric at the vending machines. He thinks about Stan driving in the opposite direction, headed back to college and maybe listening to this same song. Kyle wants to believe he'll see them both again someday. The song seems to tell him that he might, and that he might not. He wipes the corners of his eyes dry and starts track one again. It's a short song, just a little over two minutes, and every time he listens it seems to end too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The song Kyle is listening to at the end is "Stephanie" by Stevie Nicks & Lindsey Buckingham)


	10. Epilogue

Two weeks before his twenty-first birthday and one week after his spring semester ends, Kyle decides he doesn't want to spend his summer back in South Park. This could be his last chance to spend the summer in San Francisco, if he doesn't get into Berkeley's grad program next year, and if he stays he'll be able to focus while he works on his application. His last two summers in South Park were miserably dull to the point of almost feeling regressive, and the summer before that was his dreadful misadventure in Miami. Something about spending this summer alone, in the city, seems important.

He's got to be out of his dorm by the end of the week, and though spontaneous decisions typically aren't his style, it's exciting to post an ad looking for a roommate on Craigslist. He puts one up on LiveLovely, Crashpad and Livewith as well, and spends his Friday evening obsessively rereading his ad and wondering what kind of temporary summer life it might lead him to.

_Berkeley senior looking for summer accommodation on short notice. I work at FatApple's and can pay my rent in cash for the next three months. Also possibly interested in a roommate situation during the school year, if things work out well._

_About Me: I'm Kyle, a 21 year old, gay, secular Jewish guy who is working on a public health degree. I'm originally from a small town in Colorado (by way of New Jersey) and I've been at Berkeley since my freshman year. I'm a serious student, but my summer schedule will mostly involve working part time and some responsibilities as a junior board member on the Student Health Advisory Committee. I need my living space to be neat and clean, but I'm not anal about organization and can respect others' habits as long as mine are respected. I have no pets and would prefer not to share space with any._

_What I'm Looking For in a Roommate: A friendly individual who respects boundaries, preferably a young professional or serious (upperclassman) student like myself. A non-smoker (in both senses). I'm okay with drinking, but I don't enjoy loud house parties and would not want to live amid regular ones. No serious drug users, obviously. I'm not in the habit of bringing strangers back to my living space for sex, and would get along best with a roommate who dates discriminately as well._

_What I'm Looking For in a Room/Apartment: Something in reasonable walking distance to BART, preferably but not necessarily near Berkeley campus/East Bay. Okay with sharing a bathroom with one person, possibly with two if it's a couple, but more than that is not going to work for me. Need my own room with a door that closes securely for privacy. Can be a small room but must have a window. Need to be able to have a small fridge in my room for insulin storage (I'm diabetic, type 1)._

_If this sounds like a situation that would work for you, please get in touch with me ASAP._

After his ad has been posted on all four websites he makes himself step away from the computer instead of obsessively checking his email for responses. He should really call his mother and tell her about his change of plans, though he suspects she won't be too surprised. He's been dragging his feet about buying his plane ticket to Colorado since she started prodding him to do so back in March. He calls Bebe instead. Since his junior year in high school, she's been the first person he gets in touch with when he decides to do something rash. She's become his best friend, though they've never lived in the same state.

"Ooh, exciting!" she says, predictably, when he tells her of his plan. "Are you going to live in the city, in one of those walk-in closets that's been converted to a 'bedroom'?"

"Ha. No! I think I can find something decent out here by campus, something I can afford."

"I'm sure you can, I'm just teasing."

"It won't be the city, but it'll be close enough. I'm always so swamped with work during the school year. This will be like experiencing a whole new San Francisco."

"Maybe you'll have time to date."

"Sure." Kyle had sex with two friends and one classmate during the school year, but he hasn't ever really 'dated,' unless he counts Eric, who feels more like an ex-husband than an old boyfriend. If that was the case, Kyle was a child bride, which sometimes feels accurate. "How's Mike?" he asks, wanting to change the subject.

"We broke up."

"What! I mean, oh. Good."

"Yeah, I guess it's good," Bebe says, and Kyle detects the hint of a tremble in her voice. "I was so tired of living in that house. With all those stray dogs, and that Peruvian woman who didn't pay rent, and the roosters--"

"Wait, so where are you living? When did this happen?"

"Last night."

"Bebe! Why didn't you call?"

"My phone was dead! I'm with Amelia, it's fine."

"Ugh, Amelia. Why don't you come down here?"

"What, and be your roommate?"

Kyle starts to say no, of course not, but then he considers how nice that would be. He hasn't seen Bebe since Thanksgiving, she graduated from the University of Oregon last semester, and they could have the whole summer together to flit around San Francisco. It would give Kyle time to look for a more permanent roommate to live with during the school year, too. He imagines a cozy little apartment decorated by Bebe, dinners together on the fire escape when it's too hot to stay inside, and staying up until four in the morning talking about everything.

"I kind of want to," Bebe says, quietly. "If that's not too, um. Presumptuous."

"It actually sounds amazing," Kyle says. "And not to be indelicate, but -- you could help with the rent, right?"

"Kyle! Of course I can. Mike hasn't been charging me to live at the house. Or, well, he has, but I pay him in cooking and cleaning and sexual favors. Like the Peruvian chick, I suspect."

"Bebe, ugh!"

"I know, it's terrible! But I've saved all my bartending money, and I really just. Need to get away from here, Kyle. I really need a break."

They stay on the phone for an hour, and by midnight they're giddy with certainty: Bebe will come down as soon as Kyle finds a place. He'll leave his ads up in the meantime, because if they can find a decent third roommate it will save them money and possibly ensure that they have some actual furniture in this theoretical apartment. Kyle goes to bed feeling hopeful and excited. The last really excellent summer he had was six years ago, at the Mackey camp, though the summer after his junior year of high school had its highlights, and the one in Miami was memorable if nothing else.

He ends up tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The dorms are too quiet, most of the underclassmen already moved out. Kyle feels a bit lame still living in the dorms, but it's certainly the best value in the area. He rehearses the speech he'll make to his mother tomorrow, assuring her that it's not a waste of money to spend the summer here, and that his friend Bebe needs him, and that he doesn't need his parents' permission to make this decision, though they are still helping with some of his miscellaneous college expenses. He stares up at the ceiling, nervous about that making that call and haunted by the specter of summers past.

Summer has always been a weighty prospect for him. Before fat camp, summer was a long, lonely stretch of nothing until school restarted, and the year he went away and lost weight was a sort of turning point in his life. The summer after his junior year of high school was the year he took a bus to Nebraska, against his parents' express wishes, and spent a fairly miserable month there before he and Eric took off for a road trip up the west coast that was equally ill-advised. Then there was the summer between his high school graduation and his freshman year at Berkeley, known between him and Bebe as the Miami Disaster. Kyle rolls over in bed and sighs, beset with the urge to get in touch with Eric. It happened at the start of last summer, too, and there were a lot of protracted, hypothetical plans to meet up somewhere, but nothing came to fruition. He hasn't talked to Eric in a few weeks, which isn't rare even since their friendly reconciliation, but at this time of the year he feels a kind of pull in his gut, despite all their previous botched attempts to recreate their first perfect summer together.

When he finally sleeps, he dreams of that summer. In his dream he's walking along the trails behind the camp, bugs singing in the weedy brush. He can hear thunder far off in the distance, and he's frightened, searching for someone on the trail so he won't have to walk through the coming storm alone. He wants to find Eric, preserved as he was at sixteen, before they both grew up and everything went wrong. He's also looking for Stan, whose face he can't remember as precisely as he'd like to. He remembers their kiss like a lightning bolt that struck and changed him, and he feels charged up by it in the dream, buzzing with the energy of that summer that still lives in him.

He wakes up feeling overheated, blazing sunlight coming in through the window that he forgot to cover before falling asleep. They must have turned the air conditioning to a more economical setting now that the majority of the dorm's occupants have fucked off home. Kyle is grumpy as he rouses from bed, ready to get out of here and hoping his ad for roommates has gotten at least a few responses. He pulls his laptop into bed and sees that he has five new emails.

One is a reminder from campus housing about the mandatory move-out date, two are responses via Crashpad, one is from Livewith, and one is from Craigslist. Kyle opens the Craigslist inquiry first, because the subject header is 'Weird Question.' 

_Hello,_

_I feel weird writing this, and it probably sounds really creepy, but I saw your post last night while looking through the SF Bay Area roommate ads and I think I used to know you. Is your last name Broflowski? Did you go to the Mackey Youth Center six years ago? I used to work there, and if you're the Kyle I think you are (he had diabetes, was from a small town in Colorado and is your age) I've been mentally composing a huge apology to you for like six years and would love to be able to send it to you._

_If you're not interested in hearing from me and/or if you're not the Kyle I'm thinking of, please ignore this insane email that I'm sending at three in the morning._

_Sorry,_

_-Stan Marsh_

Kyle's heart is pounding as he rereads the email for the fourth time, trying to make sense of it as a real thing that he's holding in his virtual hands and not just another dream about his time in the desert. The idea of being contacted by Stan after all this time is so alien that he wonders if it's some kind of prank orchestrated by Eric, though Eric never really discerned the depth of Kyle's feelings for Stan. Even during their most vicious fights, Kyle never threw the fact that he'd been kissed by the counselor in Eric's face, both to protect Eric's feelings and Stan's reputation, since Eric is the vindictive type and might have tried to make something of a long-ago underage kiss. 

Kyle reads the email again, shaking now. Why would Stan want to apologize? For the kiss, most likely, but Kyle had thought it was clear that he'd wanted it, and had in fact asked Stan to fuck him, more or less, just before their tongues touched. Remembering this makes his already anxious stomach swirl with nauseating embarrassment, and he has to push the laptop away and go into the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face, and still can't manage to make himself believe that he has a window on his childhood crush, a way to reach into the past and touch that summer that felt like the first real one of his life.

He thinks of calling Bebe, going for a walk to clear his head, eating something to settle his stomach, but ultimately he can't stay away from the laptop. It feels critical that he replies right away, especially if Stan really has been wanting to apologize for six years, when in Kyle's view he did nothing wrong. Still, opening a reply makes his fingers tremble, and he's broken into a nervous sweat by the time he starts to actually type.

_Hi!!_

_Yes, I am that Kyle! That is me! It's really good to hear from you!_

He stares at this beginning for a while and considers stripping the exclamation points out. It's not like him to use them at all, let alone overuse them like this, but he feels Stan might need the reassuring presence of enthusiastic punctuation, so he leaves them in and continues.

_I'm really glad you saw my ad, because I don't think you need to apologize for anything. That was honestly the greatest summer of my life so far, and you were a big part of why. I really, really, REALLY appreciated having an older gay guy to talk to during that stage in my life. Your compassion toward me was incredible, and I'm so sorry (really) that my stupid crush was probably terribly awkward for you, and that I basically guilted you into humoring me that day during the storm. I hope that moment hasn't caused you too much grief over the years, because, despite how embarrassed I am at my bold & entitled behavior now, for me it was a wholly positive experience, and you really have nothing to apologize for._

After typing all this out, Kyle immediately wants to delete it. The words seem glib and too impersonal, but also too intimate at the same time. It occurs to him that this all might be better said in person, though he's really not sure he has the balls to suggest that. He decides that he needs to clear Stan's conscience straight away, whether they meet to discuss this further or not, and he leaves that paragraph in, though he's still unhappy with the overly sunny tone. He deliberates in minor agony before adding a second paragraph.

_You don't sound weird or creepy at all, by the way. I really am thrilled to hear from you. I have such good memories of that summer, and I have converted the songs from the CD you made for me and still have them on my mp3 player. That was such a thoughtful going away present, and so appreciated. Do you live in the Bay Area currently? Would you be interested in meeting for coffee or something? I hope the idea of seeing me in person isn't too traumatic, and I'm sorry again for how I backed you into a corner and made you uncomfortable. I was a brat kid and you were way nicer to me than you needed to be -- and yet it was exactly what I needed. I honestly credit you more than Mackey or the weight loss for my increase in confidence that summer._

_Thank you again for being so sweet to younger me. It tears me up to think that you feel like you need to apologize for anything, but I would love to talk if you feel like that would be productive._

He scowls at the screen and changes 'productive' to 'worthwhile,' then deletes the whole messy end of sentence and replaces it with 'if you want to.'

_Just let me know if you'd like to get together sometime and catch up -- I'll be in town all summer._

_-Kyle (Broflovski -- you were closer in your spelling than most people)_

He rereads the email many times before sending, feeling like Stan is a wild and exotic bird that might be scared off forever if Kyle makes the slightest wrong move. He tells himself that if Stan was that flighty he wouldn't have sent his email in the first place, and forces himself to hit 'send.' He has to get up and walk away from the computer afterward, feeling shaky and exposed, though it's true that he's thrilled to hear from Stan after all this time. He's thrilled just to know Stan thinks of him at all. He tries calling Bebe, but she doesn't pick up. Again he thinks of calling Eric, though he certainly wouldn't report on this development to him. Finally he walks outside, still in his sleep pants and t-shirt, needing some fresh air. He calls his mother and has a long and exhausting conversation about staying in California for the summer, and for half an hour or so this almost successfully enables him to forget that he's awaiting a response from Stan. When he goes back inside he hurries to his laptop, and he's mildly crushed when he sees two roommate inquiries from his LiveLovely ad and no emails from Stan.

Kyle tries to distract himself by packing up his room, then by making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but he's back at his laptop every five minutes or so, feeling increasingly rejected as the day wears on. It's almost three o'clock when a response finally comes from Stan. Kyle forces himself to take a deep breath before opening it, expecting a long email that took Stan hours to compose. He feels punched when he opens it and sees it's only a few lines long.

_Hey Kyle, wow. I keep writing things and deleting them. I'm probably just over-analyzing and being ridiculous, and please just say 'hell no' if this is not a good time, but I'm in Oakland right now and I could be in Berkeley in half an hour. Do you want to meet somewhere around 4 or 5? A coffee shop or a restaurant or whatever you want._

_Sorry if this is insane. I'm really glad this is you and that it sounds like you're doing awesome in school and everything._

_-Stan_

Kyle is relieved after reading this, then the dread sets in. He wants to say yes, to respond right away, but he has to wait or he'll seem overeager, and he's not sure he's emotionally or physically prepared to see Stan today. He's gained around twenty pounds since he last saw Stan, for one thing. The freshman fifteen leapt onto his bones before his first Thanksgiving break, and his efforts to get rid of it have been irregular at best. He's also gotten taller, and he doesn't really consider himself overweight, but he kind of let himself go during the last brutal crush of spring semester, and he hasn't even washed his hair in a few days. All of his most flattering clothes are dirty, worn during end of the year parties and now crumpled up at the bottom of his hamper.

He lets his fingers hover over the keys, petrified as he tries to imagine all possible outcomes. Reconnecting with Eric after camp had been magical at first, but it soured over time, and Kyle is afraid to ruin his good memories of kindly counselor Stan, especially since Stan thinks he needs to apologize for them. What if Stan has gotten pudgy? What if he's losing his hair? Kyle suspects he's still beautiful, that his body has remained nice, his hair thick and shiny, but maybe that's not what he should be worried about. Eric got better looking every year, and that was what spoiled things for them in the end, at least partly. But it's not as if he's being invited to partake in a long term relationship with Stan, who is apparently right down the freeway, waiting at his laptop in Oakland and watching for Kyle's response. Kyle takes a deep breath and lets it out. There was always something about Stan that made him feel comfortable, safe, and able to say and do almost anything while expecting total acceptance. Though he hasn't seen Stan in six years, this still feels true as he types his response.

_Stan,_

_That sounds great. I'm free tonight and I'd love to meet you for coffee at five. Do you want to just meet at Philz on Shattuck? There's also Artis if you want something a little less chain-y, but Philz will probably be less crowded. The patio at Artis is nice, though._

_Or we could go wherever! I'm not picky. It'll be great to see you and talk._

He actually has to stop himself from signing 'Love, Kyle,' which should probably be alarming. He only signs emails to his grandmother that way.

After he's sent his response, he pushes the laptop away again. He checks the clock and sees that it's now quarter past three. Standing from the bed, he feels like he's lost part of his brain function to sheer excitement and fear. He isn't sure what to do first: shower? Call Bebe? Jerk off to relieve some tension? That's become his habit before meeting someone he might end up having sex with later in the evening, but that's hardly what Stan is, though they're both adults now. Kyle reminds himself that he knows nothing about Stan's current life, that he might be married with a kid. Hopefully he would at least be married to a man, but Kyle would still be crushed if that were true, on behalf of his fifteen-year-old self. 

He hurries into the shower and shaves when he's done. There's no time for the jerk off or even calling Bebe, and he's not sure what he would say to her if he did. They've talked about Stan, and after a year or so of friendship he confessed to her that Stan had kissed him. She was judgmental about Stan upon hearing this, which made Kyle sorry he'd told her. It was too hard to explain to any outsider, how right that kiss had felt after all their long looks over the course of the summer, and the bubble of quiet they shared in the nurse's station during Kyle's injections. Only Stan had understood, or so Kyle thought. As he dresses in his most presentable clean clothes he wonders what over-analyzed words Stan typed into his email reply before deleting them.

It's warmer outside than he realized when he paced around on the phone with his mother, unseasonably so for late May. Kyle feels as if he's caused a temporary summer to descend upon the campus by reconnecting with Stan, or by dreaming of the desert just before he read Stan's first email. He's listening for thunder on the walk to Philz, unable to recall the last big storm he witnessed. It was probably back in South Park, where they amazing storms during the warm months. The ones that came last summer made Kyle feel lonely, and he'd called Eric after two of them.

He hears his phone ding after he's walked two blocks, and he knows before looking that it will be a message from Eric. They've talked, while drunk and also during that one precious week of winter break in South Park, about how they'll always be metaphysically connected, as if Eric is a radioactive spider who bit Kyle once and gave him an Eric-sense. Kyle has fucked Eric, too, and he supposes he left a similar Kyle-sense in him.

 _you done for the semester?_ is Eric's message. Kyle puts the phone away; he'll respond later. He can't think straight enough to decide if this is Eric's way of trying to suss out Kyle's summer plans, though of course that's what it is.

Part of why he picked Philz for their meetup is the necessity of the long walk, but it's not as bracing as he'd hoped. He gets there half an hour early and feels like he'll vomit, heading straight for the men's room. In a moment of weakness, needing an ally, he responds to Eric's text.

_Yes. I'm staying in California. Are you taking summer classes?_

Eric always takes summer classes, for the excuse not to go home and because he likes to spread his credits out as widely as possible. It's his stated goal to do his undergrad degree in a little under six years and then move on to grad school. He's doing a history major and has talked vaguely about being a teacher, lawyer, entrepreneur or Hollywood historical consultant. Kyle goes into a stall in the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet lid, awaiting a response. His heart is hammering, and he tries not to think of what Stan might say, how he'll smell and what he'll look like. He jumps when his phone dings again, but it's just Eric's response.

_yeah global econ and history of logic. u?_

_Nothing, just working at FatA's and doing some student comm stuff._

_maybe I'll come out there where are you staying?_

_Still looking for a place. I'll let you know._

Kyle turns the sound off on his phone and puts it away, unable to deal with Eric's vague promises right now. He feels uncomfortably reconnected to Miami every time they talk, knowing Eric is there with his asshole frat brothers, or roasting himself on the beach while some freshman who recently sucked his cock dozes beside him. Now that he's a senior he's a big deal on campus, but he kind of always was, because by some stroke of Kyle's terrible luck the University of Miami is an Eric-tailored paradise that was always waiting to receive his special gifts. The summer that Kyle stayed down there, slowly realizing that Eric had spent his freshman year having lots of sex with guys who weren't him, feels like a hellishly impossible video game level that he once tried to play, a place where he died about eight hundred times, only to be regenerated and try again.

He makes himself snap out of this funk and leaves the bathroom stall. At the sink he washes his hands twice, very thoroughly, and then checks the time on his phone again. Ten minutes until five. Feeling like he's walking out onstage, he leaves the men's room and nervously surveys the coffee shop, not really expecting to see Stan yet. When he sees a black-haired guy sitting at the table in the back right corner, studying his phone, his heel bouncing on the concrete floor, Kyle thinks: it can't be. But it is, it's Stan, and Kyle can and will walk over and sit across from him as soon as his legs start working again.

He exhales a deep but very quiet breath, reminding himself that this is not a job interview or a blind date or anything that he has to perform a certain way for. Stan always accepted him as-is, but that was back when he was a dumb kid. Stan is expecting a competent adult now, the kind of guy Kyle tried to make himself sound like in his roommate searching ads, which _is_ the kind of guy he's actually become, though right now he feels more like a little boy pretending to be the Kyle Broflovski of today. He walks slowly, trying not to be distracted by the aggressively awful Train song playing overhead.

"Stan?" he says when he's almost reached the table, and he flinches when he hears himself sounding like he did that day in the desert, right before the storm caught up to them. Stan turns and looks startled for half a second, then he grins.

"Oh my god," he says, and he seems to consider standing, then drops back into his seat. He's either blushing or sunburned, and he looks and smells like he recently shaved, too; there's a nick on his cheek like maybe he did it very quickly. He's as handsome as Kyle remembered and then some, a bit more filled out and rugged-looking in his jeans and flannel with rolled-up sleeves, no bags under his eyes. "Wow, okay," Stan says, and then he does get up, taking Kyle's hand and clapping him on the shoulder. "You're tall!"

"I'm -- you're still taller," Kyle says, grinning idiotically. He feels his face getting very hot.

"Barely. Wow, holy shit. Um, here, sit down, can I get you something?"

Kyle laughs, because Stan sounds like a waiter, and because the relief that's pouring into his chest needs an escape valve. He feels jittery and close to bursting, in danger of letting all of his interior material spill out everywhere for Stan to see, which is more or less what he'd always done back at camp.

"What are you having?" Kyle asks, suddenly unable to remember how to order coffee.

"Um, I don't know, probably something sweet. You like the sweet stuff?"

"Sure, yeah."

"How's your blood sugar?" Stan asks, and then he winces. "Sorry. I don't know why I said that."

"Because it was our -- thing. My blood sugar. Ha -- yeah -- it's fine. I'll just -- whatever you're having, only with Splenda, not real sugar."

"Splenda, got it. I'll be right back." Stan turns toward the counter and then turns back, pressing his hands together. "Um, thank you for coming, also. I'm sorry -- Jesus, you must be so freaked out by -- this, me."

"I'm really not. Seriously. It's awesome -- you look -- this is good," Kyle concludes awkwardly. Stan nods and flees, hurrying toward the counter to order.

He returns with two medium Mint Mojito coffees, iced. Kyle is pleased, because this is what he almost always gets here, but it's not like Stan read his mind. Everyone gets these at Philz.

"Thanks," he says when Stan sits down and passes his drink over. "You didn't have to pay for mine. I'll buy the next round."

"Sure." Stan takes a sip from his coffee and nods to himself, staring down at it. "Yeah, these are really good."

"They are. I love them."

Stan looks up at Kyle and they both laugh nervously. The table is small, and Kyle is very aware of the proximity of Stan's knees to his as they both lean onto the table with their elbows, hunching over their coffees.

"So," Stan says, and the color on his cheeks is definitely a flush, not a sunburn, because it's deepening now. "Where should we start? You want to talk about now or then?"

"Let's start with now," Kyle says. "Though really. You think -- why were you saying, um. That you wanted to apologize?"

"Oh, god." Stan closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, okay, yeah. Let's just talk about then." He opens his eyes and sighs, putting his shoulders back. "Kyle, I am so sorry. What I did. There's no excuse."

"Well. Yeah, there is. You were a teenager, too, and I basically grabbed you and forced you to kiss me, so--"

"No, you really didn't. You didn't. I -- there was. Motivation, on my end."

Now they're both blazingly red-faced. Kyle sips his coffee, feeling like he'll melt. They probably should have started with small talk. He can hear Stan's foot bouncing against the floor again.

"It's okay, though," Kyle says. "I was never mad at you, or hurt by it or anything. God, it was just. A nice kiss."

"I'm glad you see it like that," Stan says, though he doesn't look glad. He looks like he's going to throw up, or cry, or both. "But someday, man. When you're thirty, or forty, you're going to look back and be like, 'Jesus, that creep. That asshole.' And I think you'll be right, because I was those things."

"Please," Kyle says. "Don't think that about yourself. It was weird, I guess, but me and you. It wasn't mean, or gross, or whatever. Right?"

"Right, of course, but -- shit." Stan blows out his breath and turns his coffee cup on the table. "I had all this stuff saved up, things to say, things I tried to type after I got your email. Now I just feel like I don't know what to tell you, except that I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that. But I'm glad you're okay. You look -- you seem -- how's life?" Stan sips from his coffee, blinking rapidly.

"Life's good," Kyle says. "If you worried that you, like, scarred me or something, the opposite is true. I was so much happier after I left that camp. It really changed me."

"God, that's great, I'm glad. But it wasn't me, man, it was the program, and the counselors who knew what the hell they were doing, and your, um. Your friend Eric, right? You ever hear from him?"

"Um, yeah." Kyle laughs. "That's a really long story, actually."

"Yeah?" Stan raises his eyebrows.

"You want to hear it?" Kyle is surprised to realize that he wants to tell it. Only Bebe really knows the full Eric saga, and she was there as it happened, in the midst of the most dramatic twists and turns. Kyle has never tried to tell the whole thing to anyone in retrospect, let alone someone who has specific Mackey Youth Center context from the summer when it all began.

"Sure," Stan says, and he laughs. "I always thought about you, after. Wondered if you were okay and all that. Tell me, like. Tell me everything, if you want."

"Oh man," Kyle says, flushing with pleasure at the invitation to do so. Stan seems sincerely interested, putting his elbows on the table and leaning in to hear Kyle's life story. The horrible Train song has given way to Steely Dan, which is Kyle's father's favorite band. It seems like a good sign. "Okay," Kyle says, trying and failing to suppress his flattered smile. "But I may need to switch to booze, like, halfway through this."

"Not a problem," Stan says, smiling back at him.

"Okay," Kyle says again, placing his hands on the table. "Well, when I went back to South Park I was afraid I'd feel like I did before I left, like this loser who was always locked up in his room and eating his feelings, but it didn't go that way, thank God. Probably because I came out to my parents and my brother at an In-and-Out burger in Utah."

"That's awesome, that's so good. I came out to Wendy as soon as I got home. And then to my parents, at Christmas. Shit, but, sorry. I don't mean to interrupt."

"No, I want you to interrupt!" Kyle means this, and he almost reaches across the table to grasp Stan's wrists, wanting to walk back through both of their recent pasts together. "And that's really great to hear, congratulations. How did it go with your parents?"

"Fine, they're not anti-gay or anything. My dad was clueless, but I think my Mom already knew. How about you?"

"It was scary at first, just saying it like that, but as soon as I did I felt better about, like, everything. My mom started crying and saying how proud she was of me, and that almost made me cry, but I hate crying in front of my brother, so I held it in. It helped that Ike asked if that's why I was growing my hair out. That made me laugh. I think he said that 'cause he knew I needed a laugh, and that I didn't want to cry. He's been -- we've gotten a lot closer, since."

"That's awesome," Stan says, and he winces. "Sorry I keep saying everything is awesome. I wish I could be closer to my sister, I guess, but she moved to Canada with her boyfriend."

"Oh, seriously? My brother is from Canada! Originally, I mean. He's adopted -- did I ever tell you that?"

"I think so, yeah. Whoa, so. My sister might know your brother's, like. Biological parents."

"She might! Anyway, yeah, so -- I came out to my family, right away. And it was good, and it felt okay to be home. Eric was texting me nonstop. He really hated being back in Nebraska."

"Was it annoying?" Stan asks, looking annoyed on Kyle's behalf.

"Oh, no, I sort of loved it. I guess before we left camp things were a little weird, or rocky, but being apart made just, like, crazy in love. You know, like teenagers feel when they idealize each other," he says, and he feels bad for characterizing it this way. At the time, Eric had seemed like a golden land of milk and honey that Kyle would have crawled through ten hells to get back to. They were extremely romantic about each other once apart, keeping tabs on each other constantly and making plans for the future, waking up in the middle of the night to check their phones for reports of bad dreams or erections that needed tending. "He came to visit me during winter break," Kyle says, looking down at the table. "That was just. The best. That was a good time."

It's an understatement, but Kyle doesn't know how to begin to describe his fifteen-year-old joy during that week. He's too far away from it now, though he remembers the good parts vividly. That December after camp ended, Eric drove down to South Park in his mother's car as soon as his school let out. He texted Kyle updates from the road on the way there, and Kyle was in a state as he waited for Eric to arrive, lying in bed with his phone on his stomach, sure that he could feel every molecule that comprised his existence trembling in unbearable anticipation. They'd been Skyping regularly, tenderly pressing their fingertips to the screen just as often as they fisted their cocks to images of each other, and the memory of being touched felt to Kyle like a ghost that had visited him in a dream. Stan's kiss was part of this memory, but so was the loss of Eric's closeness, the way he would put a hand to the small of Kyle's back at random moments and pull Kyle to him confidently when they were alone. He missed having someone there to stroke his hair fondly just as much as he longed for a blow job.

When Kyle heard Eric's car in his driveway he'd sprung up from bed, the phone that had been his lifeline to Eric dropping forgotten to the floor as he ran from the room. He ran down the stairs, ignoring his mother, ran all the way out to the snowy front yard in his socks, no coat, and leapt onto Eric like it was an acrobatic routine they had practiced, something that he actually knew how to do. Eric caught him and held his socked feet above the snow, Kyle's legs wrapped around Eric while they kissed. It was cinematic, at least in Kyle's head. To his mother, from the front window, they probably looked like dangerously horny teenage fools. In the moment, Kyle would have sworn on everything he loved that he would spend the rest of his life feeling that way about Eric, like it was a miracle that they were alive at the same time, and that there would always be breathless, gushing, verging-on-orgasmic reunions when they fought their way back from any separation. From a distance it seems ridiculous, as if he's watching this along with his mother from the living room window, but at the time Kyle was certain that what he had with Eric would last forever.

"Anyway," he says to Stan, still a little achy with the memories. "It gave me a taste of what it was like to have a boyfriend in 'real life,' you know? We went to the movies together and held hands in the dark. We parked his car near the frozen pond and -- that kind of thing. My mom made him sleep on the couch downstairs, but he would sneak up to my room and just. You know, the first time you share a bed with another guy? When you wake up in the middle of the night and he's there, under the blankets with you?" Kyle peeks at Stan. He's glad when Stan's smile comes easily; of course he knows what Kyle means. "It was just so cozy, so nice. I thought that every time I saw him again it would be just like that. Me and him slipping in and out of our secret little world together."

"I wish I'd had that at fifteen," Stan says. "Like, with another guy my age. That would have been great."

"But Craig was your first," Kyle says, and remembering him brings to mind a hundred questions. "Were you -- how was that, really?" He grins, feeling a little bit like he's time traveled straight out of summer camp and into this gleeful moment. "Now that we're both in our twenties, am I allowed to ask you about Craig?"

"Shit," Stan says, and he snorts. "Craig Tucker. Yeah, he was my first." Stan is turning red again, probably thinking about the time Kyle saw them together in the laundry room, which makes Kyle's face hot, too.

"Did you guys keep in touch?" Kyle asks, pretending this question is casual. He's dying to know.

"Nope," Stan says, and Kyle feels guilty for being relieved. Craig was nice to him in the end, and had seemed to really care for Stan. "Craig lived in Palm Springs during the school year. He taught high school there. I went back to Davis for college, and we exchanged numbers, but it seemed pointless to call him, and he didn't even email me until just before the next summer, asking if I wanted to come back and intern at the camp again. I think he wanted to pick up where we'd left off, temporarily. But Wendy had a job in the city that summer, and there was no way in hell I could go back there after what happened with you, um. I was horrified that I'd let myself do that."

"I'm getting that," Kyle says, feeling a little embarrassed, or maybe dirty, for having drug Stan down to such depths. "What was the deal with you and Craig, anyway? Was he, like. Nice to you?" Kyle groans when he hears himself asking this, because he's pretty sure he asked this, or something very similar, back then, too.

"I don't know if I'd say nice." Stan drinks from his coffee and looks out the window that's beside their table, drumming his fingers on the table. "He was careful with me, that's what he used to say. 'I'll be careful with you.' He'd had this older boyfriend when he was around my age -- younger, actually, I think -- and the guy kind of fucked him up. I figured out, eventually, that he was sort of trying to relive that, with me, only making it better than what he went through, or whatever. Sorry," Stan says, looking back to Kyle. "I keep busting up your story."

"But it's your story, too," Kyle says. Stan smiles and looks down at his coffee, adjusting the mint leaves.

"So you and Eric were pretty intense?"

"Well. Yeah, especially that winter. When he had to go back to Nebraska, oh my god. It was like leaving camp times a thousand. We'd spent the whole week having -- well, we're both grownups here, I'll just say it. We had nonstop sex, the clueless teenage kind that feels like it must be the most amazing sex anyone's ever had in the world, and I just didn't want to let him go. I felt like I'd freeze to death in this desolate wasteland without him. I probably wrote poetry to that effect." He definitely did, and appreciates the fact that Stan doesn't laugh. Even Eric doesn't know about the poems. "So we were super co-dependent after that, long-distance style. I was always on the phone, or glued to my laptop. My mom would get mad at me and take my phone and my computer away, saying I wasn't studying enough, and my rage would go through the fucking roof. You remember my rage?"

"I remember."

"Yeah, it was bad. Mom and I had terrible fights. Finally we had to go to -- ugh, family therapy, and my therapist convinced her that cutting me off from contact with Eric was making me regress big time. I was binge eating again, too, but then I would go on starvation strikes, or work myself into such an upset frenzy over her taking away my boyfriend, essentially, that I would throw up out of sheer rage. Sorry, this is disgusting!"

"It's not disgusting. I'm surprised Eric didn't drive down there and kidnap you. He seemed pretty, like. Willful."

"Oh, he was! Still is. But he'd gotten really obsessed with moving away for college, and his mom didn't have the money, so he was working on scholarship schemes nonstop. He couldn't miss school or he'd risk blowing our big future plan, which was to go to college together somewhere far away from our parents and their evil control over us. He came down for two weeks during the summer, before his senior year, and it was weird. My mom didn't like him at that point. She didn't trust him at all, and was constantly trying to catch him sneaking into my room. Then Eric and I would fight because he called her a bitch behind her back and refused to see things from her perspective, and he made me feel like a traitor if I told him I didn't like him talking that way about my mom."

"Jesus. And then you guys ended up going to college together?" Stan looks queasy at the prospect. Kyle shakes his head.

"Nope. There's more to the story."

"Sorry, continue."

"It's okay, please ask whatever questions you want."

They grin at each other, and Kyle moves his knee under the table, wanting to knock it against Stan's. He finishes his coffee and clears his throat.

"Anyway, okay. Stop me if this gets boring."

"It's not boring, dude, I'm fascinated here."

"Ha!" 

Kyle blushes and has to look away for a moment, his chest doing a happy fluttering thing. He always thought all this teenage melodrama was kind of embarrassing, but it does seem like a fascinating story with Stan listening.

"Alright, so. At the end of my junior year of high school, Eric found out he got accepted to the University of Miami on a full, needs-based scholarship. It was this special thing for a student who had really turned things around during his senior year, and Eric had sent in an essay about the value of his needs-based scholarship at fat camp, and he got a letter of recommendation from Mackey, the whole thing. He was all set, and of course 'we' decided that I would try to go to the same school next year. In the meantime, my parents refused to let him come visit during the summer, because my awful cousin was staying with us already, and they thought Eric was a bad influence and I needed to get over him. I bet you can guess what happened next."

"You went up there? To Nebraska?"

"Yep. Man, I was such a lunatic. It was about seeing him, but it was also about defying my parents, and doing what I wanted. I was basically in a rage fugue when I left. I packed a bookbag full of clothes, took the money from my birthday cards, and bought a bus ticket to fucking Kearney, Nebraska. I walked to the bus station! It was still cold out, and I remember how proud I was of myself, and scared, too. Then the bus ride was this nine hour nightmare, everyone else on the bus was creepy as fuck, and and my cell phone died five hours in, so I couldn't obsessively check in with Eric on the home stretch. But he met me at the bus station, he'd been there for hours, and at first it was great, though it didn't escape me that I was in Nebraska. Have you been?"

"Nope. What is it, like. Farmland?"

"Yes, but, ugh, there's just this film of misery hanging over the place. Over Kearney, anyway, and Eric hated it there so I was seeing it through his eyes. He was living in the basement of his mother's house, and it wasn't a nice place -- I sound snobby, but it wasn't just the decor or anything, it was this feeling of encroaching failure that seemed to coat every surface, and Eric mentioned that his old bedroom was upstairs when he was giving me the tour, and all I could think was--" Kyle stops there before getting carried away. Stan knows nothing about Eric's mother's boyfriend and what happened in the upstairs bedroom. "Just -- I kept thinking about how unhappy his childhood was. I guess we had a few nice nights there, but his mother was even worse than mine, always sort of lurking nearby, though she actually approved of the relationship, which made how nosy she was even weirder. I kept worrying that she could hear us having sex."

"Christ," Stan says. "Sounds awful."

"It was, and meanwhile my mother was threatening to come and get me, she was so mad. She was actually on her way up there after a few weeks of me refusing to have Eric drive me home, and that was when we split for the west coast."

"You and Eric?"

"Yep. He stole his mother's car, basically. He said she could take the bus to work, and I felt terrible, but I was also starting to get cautious about how I reacted to him. Like, I didn't want to start a fight about anything, especially when things were already so fucked up between me and my mother. It was like Eric was my only ally, so I just went along with his insanity and got in the damn car. Then he started paying for everything with these credit cards he'd applied for, and around the time we made it to the coast in California I realized he'd applied for them in his mother's name."

"Fuck," Stan says. Kyle feels bad for gushing like this about Eric's misdeeds to a man who was once a kind of romantic rival of his, but Stan seems more concerned on Kyle's behalf than judgmental of Eric. "Then what happened? How long were you gone?"

"Around a month, I think? I kept trying to 'gently' tell Eric that it wasn't a good idea to be running up these credit card debts, and he said his mother owed him for almost ruining his life, and that it would have been completely ruined if he hadn't met me. I could see he was getting into, like, a pretty dark place. He was burned out from trying so hard to get his scholarship, and scared about leaving for school, and he could tell, I think, that I was feeling really weird about the whole thing and increasingly doubting that he knew what he was doing. Poor Eric. But at the time I was resenting him more and more, and missing my parents, starting to want to go home. But I was scared Eric would totally lose it if I told him that."

"Holy shit, Kyle. This is way too intense for a sixteen-year-old." 

"I was seventeen at that point, but yeah. It was too much. I was in touch with Bebe the whole time, and she was like, this is crazy, you need to get him to bring you home. But I have this thing, um. Me and Craig actually talked about this."

"Craig from camp? When?"

"Oh, hmm." Kyle tries to place a date, but it's been so long. "I really wish I'd actually used the diary Mackey gave me back then. But it was toward the middle of camp, or maybe it was closer to the end -- after he caught us coming back from that Mexican restaurant. Another one of Eric's grand schemes. Anyway, Craig said that he could relate to wanting to take risks. Does that seem, um. Accurate? You knew him better than me."

"Risks?" Stan snorts. "Yeah. I guess you saw one of those."

"Ha." Kyle gulps down the rest of his coffee. "Yep. You weren't into that kind of thing? Personally?"

"Jesus, no. Well, maybe. I didn't know what I was into. I'd just been so scared of actually being with a guy, and then it was so good." Stan laughs and gets red-faced again. "You know what I mean. Probably."

"Sure, yeah, of course! So yeah, I was on this risky, insane adventure, living in motels with Eric, and I honestly felt like we were on the run from some crime, between the unauthorized borrowed car and the credit card fraud. By mid-July I just couldn't take it anymore, and we had a terrible blowout fight somewhere near the Washington state border. I wanted to go home, and he accused me of not really wanting to go to college with him, which honestly was true at that point. After that road trip from hell I was picturing life in college with Eric as this chaotic mess where I would be constantly repressing my feelings while I babysat his. He left me by the side of the road--"

"Jesus! What a fucking prick."

"No, but -- I'd said some really awful things, and he came back like twenty minutes later. He drove me back to Denver and my mother met us there, in the lobby of this fucking Hyatt downtown, for some reason. She bought us lunch and was trying to act all calm, probably on the advice of our family therapist, but I could see she wanted to wring both our necks. It was so awkward. I was still in love with Eric, but I also just wanted him to go home to his own mother and leave me with mine. I was so tired of being in his orbit or whatever. When he left, after he drove off, I just broke down and cried in this alcove by these pay phones, and my mother cried, too, and she promised things would be better between us, and she'd pay for my college as long as I went anywhere but Miami, because by then she'd talked to Liane and found out Eric was headed there."

"Did that make you rage again?"

"No, I honestly was kind of relieved. I was just so burned out and in over my head, tired of making these grand future plans according to Eric's schedule. I went home and crawled into my bed, and my mother treated me like an invalid for a few days, but I actually liked it. It was a different kind of regression, a good one. I felt like I needed to just act like a kid again for a while. My dad took me and Ike to a Rockies game, and I played video games with my cousin and helped my mom chop vegetables for dinner. That kind of shit. It was nice."

"What about Eric? He was calling you all the time, I bet."

"Oh yeah, of course. I told him that my mom said I could only talk to him for half an hour a day, which was true. He was getting ready to leave for Florida at that point, for college, so he was a little less obsessive."

"His mom didn't like, take him to court for the credit card thing?"

"God no, she was weirdly permissive with him. I think maybe she knew, subconsciously, um. That some things she'd done, or like, brought into the house, had fucked him up. I don't know. Things were a little weird between me and Eric when my senior year in high school started, and after he left for college I thought he'd be clingy with me again, like, because I didn't think he'd make friends there. But he did."

"Well. That's good?"

"It was good! At first. I was really proud of him. I would look at his Facebook and be so relieved when I saw him hanging out with other guys, doing normal student things, going to the beach. And then I was jealous. Oh my god," Kyle says, hearing himself. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It's so tedious."

"It's really not," Stan says. "I've never had some big love affair like this."

"It -- you haven't?"

"No, not unless Craig counts. And from where I'm sitting, he doesn't. Nobody took me on a spontaneous road trip with stolen credit cards. Nobody even texted me every day." Stan grins and shrugs. "I mean, I dated. After Craig. But I was always kind of cautious."

"I should have been," Kyle says. "He totally trashed me, you know."

"Eric?"

"Yeah. Unbeknownst to me, he was really enjoying himself at college. With multiple guys."

"Seriously? After all that? What a fucking slimeball."

"I mean--" Kyle winces, because it's not that simple, though he would have agreed with Stan's assessment when he left Miami in tears. "To be fair, I had been pretty distant since the whole road trip thing. I would miss my chance to talk to him some days, sort of on purpose, and I liked the feeling of not being chained to this commitment all the time. And he sensed that. I guess I was kind of cold to him. I'm not a hundred percent sure we were even still, like, boyfriends. We didn't lay out any ground rules in the great Hyatt negotiation with my mother presiding. Then during his spring semester he pledged to a fraternity and totally disappeared for weeks at a time, and I was livid, even though I'd done the same thing to him the summer before, after I got home. I would stalk his Facebook and see him with his new frat brothers, having fun, big smiles, arms around each other, and I'd just seethe. Meanwhile, nobody asked me to senior prom, not even as a friend, so I was just like, sitting home alone, watching Eric's new life play out on social media."

"God. That was really insensitive of him."

"I guess so, but there was a less petty part of me that was really proud of him and happy for him, and it also made me feel kind of free, because I'd been accepted to Berkeley, and him having this great life in Miami made the concept of breaking it to him that I wouldn't be joining him there seem easier. I still missed him, though, and he would get drunk and send me these devastating messages about how much he loved me and how I'd saved his life--" Kyle makes himself scale it back a bit, gripping his coffee cup with both hands. He doesn't want to sell those sentiments out to Stan, even if Eric was intoxicated when he fessed up. Kyle still has those messages on his phone, and though they're too painful to reread, he couldn't bear deleting them.

"Sounds like you were just growing apart," Stan says, and Kyle nods.

"We were. I mean, of course we were. I didn't want to lose my connection to him, but I guess I wanted it to be less intense. At the same time, I was so jealous of his frat brothers and all his new friends. He looked really good, like. He'd gotten in better shape during his freshman year, and he had this tan and this new swagger. Nobody in Miami knew him as a former fat kid who'd had a tough childhood. I knew him that way, all his old secrets that he wanted to put behind him, and I think that's part of why he wanted to put some distance between us. But he still invited me to spend the summer with him in Miami, and I was possessive enough to go down there, like a complete idiot, and think that he would spend those months worshiping me like he used to."

"Damn," Stan says, wincing, like he knows where this is going.

"Well, he wasn't terrible," Kyle says. "Not right away. He was so excited to show me his shiny new life down there, it was pretty cute at first. And he was proud of me, too, introducing me as his boyfriend who went to Berkeley, though I hadn't set foot there yet. He seemed nervous, though. I remember he was really sweaty. Sorry, is this getting boring?"

"It's not. How'd you find out about the other guys?"

"It was a slow realization. I think I already had my suspicions, based on his Facebook pictures and how he was kind of pulling away a little, but I was in denial. I was pretty naive, like. I just couldn't imagine that Eric could care about anyone but me, after everything we'd been through. But he had these in-jokes with his frat brothers that seemed like they were about gay sex, and I wasn't sure how literal that was because, like, frat humor." Kyle pauses and searches Stan's face. He seems to actually be listening, and he's almost literally on the edge of his seat, his shoulders curved toward Kyle. "Were you in a frat?" Kyle asks. Stan shakes his head.

"My dad wanted me to pledge, freshman year, but I couldn't handle all the assholes."

"Ugh, yes, thank you. Not to be, you know, prejudiced, but if there are awesome frat guys out there, I haven't met them. I hated Eric's frat brothers, and I hated how he was around them. Mr. douche bro butch fun guy, and he was drinking a lot, too, which worried me. Not that, you know. Not that I'm against drinking," he says, glancing at Stan nervously. Stan shrugs.

"It can be bad," he says.

"Exactly. Oh, also. During sex, Eric started talking in the third person. About himself. I got the feeling it was something he picked up from another partner. And the fact that he insisted on wearing condoms all of a sudden pretty much sealed it."

"Whoa, yeah. What was his excuse?"

"Something about dorm showers? Sexually transmitted mononucleosis? I knew it was bullshit, but I didn't want to deal with the fact that he had moved on and I wasn't the center of his universe anymore, even though being that had been too much pressure and too exhausting. Both of us were trying to act like everything was okay, and it got increasingly hard. Then, one night, I got drunk and punched him."

"Oh, shit. Tell me he didn't hit you back," Stan says, frowning. "I mean. He was so much bigger than you."

"I think he considered it," Kyle says. "There was a moment. But then he started crying, blubbering. He was drunk, too, and he's a really emotional drinker. He confessed to sleeping with like, half the guys we'd been hanging out with, and he begged me for forgiveness. Even though it didn't take me totally off guard, it just wrecked me. I couldn't even look at him. I was staying with my mom's aunt -- she lives close to his campus and that's the only reason my parents let me go to Miami. I left for her house, and then I worried that Eric would do something stupid like try to drive, or drink until he had alcohol poisoning. It was awful. I went home the next day, after I made sure he'd survived the night, and I refused to talk to him again until I'd been at Berkeley for a few months. I loved it here right away, and made friends. I had sex, too," Kyle says, glancing down at his hands. "It was different, weird to be with someone who wasn't him. But it helped me understand why he wasn't faithful once he got to school. We were both becoming, like, new people. So that's my big Eric saga. We still talk, we're friends. He tries to get me to have phone sex with him sometimes, but." Kyle flushes and decides not to mention that sometimes he gives in. "Sorry. I can't believe I just told you all that."

"Why?" Stan says. "I wanted to know. Which is probably weird and creepy."

"It's not! Stan, really, you're the least creepy person ever."

"Ha, well. You want another coffee?"

"Yeah, but I'm buying this time."

Kyle hops up and goes to the counter, feeling a little drained and thirsty after talking so much, though telling the big Eric story didn't take as long as he'd expected it to. He hasn't talked this frankly about it even with Bebe, because she'll scold him if he speaks fondly of Eric or implies that he sort of knew, that whole time in Miami and even before he arrived, that Eric had been with others. He'd wanted closure, and had waited for it until the explosive fight, the punch, Eric's sobbing. He's still not sure he's gotten closure, and while he waits for their next round of coffees he checks his phone. There are two new messages from Eric. Kyle looks over his shoulder to make sure Stan isn't watching, as if he cares that Kyle is checking his texts.

At 5:05pm Eric sent: _yeah let me know. been a long time since we were in cali together, hahaha_

Thirty minutes and probably a few beers later he sent: _miss you. all the redheads her are freaky looking. youre a hot ginge kyle_

Kyle rolls his eyes and puts his phone away, only a little bit flattered by that. There is a part of him that will be sad when Eric's post-five o'clock texts stop coming, but he knows it's unhealthy for both of them to try to hang on to their long ago summer love like this. He's discussed this with multiple therapists at the student health center on campus.

"So I've barely asked anything about you," Kyle says when he returns with the coffees. "Except for nosy questions about Craig. You live in Oakland?"

"Yeah, at the moment." Stan touches the bridge of his nose again, not quite pinching it this time. "I'm looking for a new place. I want to be closer to the city, because most of my work is there."

"What do you do?" Kyle remembers vague plans to be a physical education teacher.

"Ah, god." Stan smiles sheepishly. "It's embarrassing."

"What -- why?"

"I'm a wedding singer," Stan says, pinching his eyes shut. "It just kind of happened."

"Oh, wow, okay." Kyle isn't sure what kind of look to put on his face. He wasn't aware that wedding singers were still a thing.

"It's different than what you're thinking of," Stan says, holding his hands up, as if to halt Kyle's mental image of his career. "My friend Bridon, he used to be the lead singer in this band that I was in--"

"The Communications?"

"You knew them?" Stan says, looking as if he's not sure this is a good thing or not. Kyle nods and grins.

"I, uh. Googled you, after camp."

"Oh, right." Stan laughs and leans forward to put his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands. "Yeah, it's embarrassing. My life sounds so embarrassing, out of context."

"No, it doesn't!" Kyle can't resist any longer. He reaches over to touch Stan's elbow, supportively. Stan peeks out from between his fingers and groans.

"It's a little embarrassing," he says. "The Communications, oh man. Bridon was so -- we had really different visions of what the band should be. He's still, like, my best friend, though. He helped me through some really hard shit a few years back, when the band split up."

"Is he -- are you -- were you guys together?" Kyle asks. He remembers pictures of Bridon from the band's website, and he'd been jealous even then. Bridon was dreamy.

"Together? Oh, no." Stan laughs and takes his hands away from his face. "No, he's straight. He's actually -- well, um. Never mind."

"Actually what?"

"He's looking for a roommate, too. He just got divorced from this lady who used to be our agent, a million years ago. She let him stay in the apartment, but she's charging him rent. I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I'm looking for a place," Kyle says, though he has no interest in living with one of Stan's former bandmates. "Anyway, wedding singing. That's pretty cool, actually. I remember you singing at the campfires."

"God, that's right." Stan winces, and Kyle wants to reach for him again, to pet him reassuringly. "I can't believe -- wow, that. Happened."

"You have a great voice!"

"Well. Thanks. I don't know, I do okay. We specialize in unique playlists, like, I'm not up there singing 'Wind Beneath my Wings' during the father daughter dance or anything like that. San Francisco weddings are usually pretty cool. We do a lot of gay weddings. Bridon got me started in the business, and he's sort of retiring. He used to be a pretty sought-after wedding singer. I guess that's me now." Stan snorts, and Kyle shakes his head, wishing he wouldn't dismiss himself so much.

"So you didn't end up a football coach," Kyle says. "That's good. You seemed so resentful of those expectations." He flinches when he realizes he sounds like a therapist. Early on, at Berkeley, he'd thought about doing a psych major.

"I switched my major to music, junior year," Stan says, nodding. "I think -- this is gonna sound really fucking weird, but I've always thought that somewhere between knowing you and Craig, that really helped me figure out that it was okay to not be the person everybody back home assumed I was. Beyond just being gay."

"It was kind of the same with me," Kyle says, struggling not to bounce joyfully in his seat. It feels so good to talk to Stan again, and overdue. He wishes they had kept in touch, though that would have been highly inappropriate, at least on the surface. "I mean, that summer, between you and Eric -- having you guys to talk to really helped me feel like what I had to work with, self-wise, wasn't this hobbling pile of crap after all. I thought, if Eric likes me so much, and a guy like Stan wants to be my friend -- it just gave me hope that maybe I had some decent qualities."

"That makes me happy," Stan says, and he looks down at his coffee, jostling the ice in the cup. "That just. Hearing that. It's really good to hear."

"So yeah," Kyle says, looking down into his own cup. He's flushed with a kind of giddy sense of release, as if saying all of this to Stan, after all this time, is the final rung of the ladder he's been climbing since summer camp.

"Are you in touch with any of the other campers from that summer?" Stan asks.

"Yep. Remember Bebe?"

Kyle talks at length about his friendship with Bebe, her struggles with Mike, her weight, her parents, and her plans to spend the summer in San Francisco if Kyle can find a place. Stan tells him about Bridon and The Communications, the joys and hells of touring the country as a very unknown band with a lead singer who was stubbornly trying to take the group in a 'pop direction,' and some of the pitfalls of wedding singing.

"But mostly it's great," he says after he's complained about diva clients. "I really look forward to going to work, and trying to make someone's big day sound like they want it to. I guess that's pretty trite."

"It's not, it's wonderful. I have no idea what I want to do. I mean, I'll definitely go to grad school. I really want to stay in the Bay Area, though. Berkeley's program is so competitive."

"Funny that you ended up at Berkeley," Stan says. They've both had three cups of coffee now, and Kyle's leg is bouncing under the table, matching the nervous energy of Stan's. Outside, the sun is going down.

"I applied to Davis, too," Kyle says. He feels a little lightheaded, admitting this, and wonders if Stan will be able to guess that Kyle came out to California for college because he associated it with Stan. "Excuse me a sec," he says, digging his insulin kit from his pocket. "Gonna check my blood sugar."

"Wow," Stan says, grinning. "Right at the table."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's cool. I always felt bad for you at camp, having to come to the nurse's station for such a simple thing."

"Are you kidding?" Kyle says, keeping his eyes on his meter as he uncaps it. "That was my favorite part of my day. God, I'm so sorry about that, by the way. I was practically humping your leg by the end of camp. Or, literally," he says, muttering.

"It was cute," Stan says, and Kyle doesn't dare look up at him, smiling down at his blood sugar reading instead.

"Then I hope I've managed to convince you that you did nothing wrong," Kyle says. "I was the embarrassing idiot between the two of us."

"Aw, don't say that. I guess it was just a weird time in our lives, or whatever. I've never been able to explain it to anyone. That's why I was so glad it was you, answering my email. I felt a little crazy even asking, like the whole thing was just some dream I had a long time ago."

"That summer did feel that way," Kyle says, looking up. When his eyes meet Stan's something warm settles in his chest, and they smile at each other.

"Are you hungry?" Stan asks. "Or do you need -- can I buy you a drink? Do you need one, after telling all those Eric stories?"

"Sure," Kyle says. "But I'm not legal for a few more weeks."

"Oh, so I'd be contributing to the delinquency of a minor, again?"

"Uh-huh," Kyle says, hoping this sounds flirtatious and not just stupid. Stan grins and collects their empty coffee cups. Kyle watches as Stan deposits them in the correct paper recycling bin, tossing the wilted sprigs of mint in the compost bin before disposing of each cup. He feels like he's floating as they leave the coffee shop together, chatting about recycling conventions in the local area. Normally Kyle would worry that he's a boring conversationalist, especially after gushing at length about his ex-boyfriend, but Stan seems effortlessly fascinated by him, just like the old days.

They walk back toward campus and end up at Triple Rock, where Kyle has been hundreds of times over the past three years at school. The place feels different with Stan at his side, ordering two beers for them without getting carded.

"How about you?" Kyle asks once their drinks have arrived. "Do you. Are you dating anybody?"

"Nah," Stan says. "Bridon tries to fix me up with his gay friends, but they're all like him. I love him, he's my best friend, but he's really into image, and going to the right restaurants, knowing the right people in the industry. That sort of shit."

"The wedding singing industry?"

"Sort of. The local music scene, which overlaps with that in some places. Bridon wants to record again. He wants to be a solo artist."

"Do you ever think about that?" Kyle asks. "For you?"

"Not anymore. Not ever, really. I liked being lead guitar, back when Bridon was doing all the PR and front man stuff. I'm just not built for that. I know that makes me sound like this lame asshole with no ambition--"

"It does not," Kyle says. "I can relate. Like, in my program at Berkeley? It's pretty intense, even on the freshman acceptance level, and there's a lot of alpha types. Everybody wants to be a super star. I only have so much energy for that, but I like doing the actual work. I just don't like kissing ass."

"Exactly," Stan says, and they both drink from their beers. Kyle feels grown up, which is ridiculous, because he's felt that way for a while and has been no stranger to underage drinking since he started at Berkeley. But this feels different, like he and Stan survived something together and can now look back on it with fond pride.

They order nachos and then burgers, and Kyle ends up drinking three beers. After two he's laughing a lot, and so is Stan, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes Kyle want to swoon into his personal space, which becomes necessary as the bar fills up and gets louder. Stan seems authentically happy, and by the time they're getting their check Kyle is saying that wants to see him sing.

"But I don't know anybody who's getting married," Kyle says, realizing then that he's drunk. Stan seems sober, as if three beers aren't nearly enough to effect him, and Kyle supposes that's probably the case, given his history with drinking.

"It's just as well," Stan says. "I get embarrassed, singing in front of people I know. This sounds dumb, but I always hated it when my friends and family would come to my shows. It adds this whole other level of anxiety. I love doing weddings because I'm just this anonymous stranger doing his job. Like, they can focus on the music and not on me, because the event's not about me, or my band. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," Kyle says. They're standing outside the bar. It's late, but Kyle doesn't want to leave Stan. It occurs to him that they have no real excuse to see each other after tonight. "So Bridon's apartment," Kyle says, drunk enough to behave desperately. "What's it like?"

"It's super nice, dude. His ex was loaded. And she's really sticking it to him on the rent, so he needs to get someone in there soon. I'd move in myself, but me and Bridon can't live together. We've tried it before and he was up in my face about everything, trying to set me up with guys, policing my diet, stealing my pot, and he'd always try to drag me out to play guitar for his friends. But he wouldn't be like that with you," Stan says hurriedly. "I mean, with someone who's not already his close friend."

"Interesting," Kyle says. "Maybe I should meet him?"

"Yeah, you should check out the apartment. It's in Noe Valley, and I bet I could get him to cut you a deal on the rent."

"That would be amazing," Kyle says, swaying a little. "Really, I. Yeah. Thank you." 

"Where's the nearest BART station?" Stan asks, peering down the block. "Is it far?"

"Oh, yeah, I think so. I just walked from campus."

"That's a pretty long walk. My car's parked back by Philz - can I drive you?"

"Oh, no, it's fine," Kyle says, and he instantly regrets this. He'd like to see what kind of car Stan is driving, for one thing.

"Let me walk with you, at least part of the way," Stan says, and for a moment Kyle thinks Stan will take his arm, but then he puts his hand back in his pocket. "Since you're an inebriated minor, and I'm responsible for, um. Letting you drink."

Kyle grins, wishing Stan had said, _since I'm responsible for you_. For a moment there it had seemed like he would.

"You can walk with me if you want," Kyle says. "But I guess that's ridiculous, since your car is that way. I can walk by myself. I'm grown up now, Stan."

"Yeah, I noticed. But it's nice out, and I need to walk off the beers before I drive."

Stan seems perfectly competent to operate a car, but Kyle nods and accepts this excuse to extend the evening for nine blocks. They walk slowly and talk about renting in the city, Berkeley campus versus Davis, and their plans for the summer.

"You work at FatApple's?" Stan says, grinning.

"Shut up," Kyle says, shouldering him.

"No, I'm not laughing at you. I did the food service thing, too, during school. It's good, you know? It makes you appreciate waiters more, and cashiers."

"I only work twelve hours a week during the school year," Kyle says, guiltily. "But hopefully this summer I can get more shifts. I'm, um. Funded, partially. For school. I have a scholarship."

"That's awesome, dude," Stan says, and he seems to mean this so sincerely that Kyle is taken off guard. Most of his friends are his academic peers, and even the ones who truly do wish him the best express at least a patina of bitter jealousy when they acknowledge his accomplishments.

When they've walked together for fifteen minutes Kyle is still reluctant to leave Stan, but he feels bad about taking him further and further from his car, so he insists the he can handle the rest of the walk alone. Exchanging phone numbers helps ease the separation somewhat. Kyle thinks of suggesting that they stop someplace else before parting, because it's only ten o'clock. Then he realizes that he's been talking almost nonstop for five hours.

"I'm so annoying!" he says, grabbing Stan's shoulder. "I talked so much about myself. I don't usually do that." This isn't exactly true, but he doesn't usually go out with people he wants to impress this much.

"It's okay," Stan says. "I talked about my stuff, too. How about Monday? Are you working?"

"Monday?"

"To meet up with Bridon. He could show you the apartment--"

"Oh, of course, yeah. But wait, shit. Sunday is the day I'm supposed to be move dout of my dorm. I know it's short notice, but is there any way he could do it tomorrow or Thursday? Bebe was planning to come down on Saturday--"

"I'll ask him. It'll probably be fine. He's usually pretty free during the day. He does his 'networking' at night."

"Okay." Kyle realizes he's still holding Stan's shoulder, and he removes his hand so quickly that he's sure it was conspicuous. "So, good. Yes, let me know."

"It was great to see you," Stan says, taking a few steps backward. "I'm glad you live around here, that's cool."

"Me too. I mean, yeah. Okay -- bye!"

Kyle hurries away, feeling as graceless as he had when he barreled out of that nurse's station after popping a boner in Stan's presence. He's slightly woozy, but more from nervous excitement than the beer. He checks his phone twice to make sure that Stan's number got saved, then remembers that he already has Stan's email, just in case. When he reaches the campus he calls Bebe.

"I just had the craziest night!" he says, not bothering to control the volume of his voice.

"Oh, good!" she says. "I'm so bored. Tell me!"

"You're not going to believe it."

"What? Jesus, it's not Eric again, is it?"

"No, but it is someone from our shared past!"

"Um, okay. What does that mean?"

"Remember the counselor who kissed me -- well, who I kissed, when I was fifteen? At camp?"

"That Stan guy?" Bebe sounds horrified already, and Kyle is annoyed, but there's no one else who will appreciate the vast significance of this evening.

"Yes, that Stan guy. Don't get all judgmental. He's the sweetest guy, Bebe, and he still looks so good. Better, actually."

"Kyle. Are you drunk?"

"No, no."

"This guy who kissed you when you were way underage got you drunk?"

"No! And what's 'way' underage, anyway? Not fifteen, not nearly. I had some beers, but I'm not drunk. This is the sound of _happiness_ , Bebe. I know it's alien, coming from me and involving a guy, but guess what? He has a friend with a really nice apartment, and me and you might move there."

"Okay. First of all, I can tell when you're drunk, and you are drunk right now. Secondly, how did this guy find you?"

"He didn't _find_ me. Not like that. You make it sound so nefarious."

"So what, you found him?"

"Well, no. But yes, in a way. He saw my roommate ads. It's like, fate."

"What's like fate? Kyle, did you have sex with this guy?"

"No. Bebe, stop. Don't pre-judge this situation. It's not even a situation yet, really. But we talked for five hours."

"Yeah? About what? The old days?"

"A little, and I told him about how I've been, you know, since."

"Is he still allowed to be in charge of minors?"

"Okay, you know what? If you can't be happy about this I'm going to hang up."

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be happy about. We're moving in with him this summer? You're in love with this guy, still? What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on!" Kyle says, though it certainly feels as if something is. He feels like the Little Mermaid, unable to put his finger on what's good about this exactly, but also ready to break into song while waves crash behind him for emphasis. "Okay," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe I am drunk, a little."

"Are you alone? Check your blood sugar."

"Bebe, really? I'm not a child. I can take care of myself, and this is a good guy I'm talking about, here. You'll see. I'm going to check out his friend's apartment for us. Stan doesn't live there."

"Mhmm. What's Stan doing these days? Is he in school?"

"He's a musician."

"Oh boy."

"Bebe!"

They debate Stan's merits until Kyle reaches his apartment and promises to call her tomorrow, when he's sober. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, checks his blood sugar. As he gets into bed he's not sure he'll be able to sleep, too excited about the prospect of seeing Stan again soon, but when his head hits the pillow he's out.

He wakes up when it's still dark in the room, the uncovered window letting in only the light from the streetlamps now. It's a quarter til five in the morning, and Kyle tries to go back to sleep but can't. He has a mild headache, irritating enough to keep him awake but not so bad that he actually wants to pull himself out of bed and find his Advil bottle, which his roommates might have entirely drained before leaving for the summer. He lies there feeling vaguely ill, the joy that the beers brought him earlier transformed into vague unease. He wonders if Stan was only being polite, listening to all that old garbage about Eric, and then feels bad for Eric as well. There were good times, too, even in the midst of the worst of their mutual chaos.

Kyle tosses and turns in bed, his guilt intensifying as he remembers some of those good times, and how flippantly he described the bad ones while Stan listened. Aside from awkward sex with friends at school, he's never really experienced any kind of romantic relationship other than what he had with Eric, and this has left him with a lack of context for what went on between them. Their summer together at camp had been partly frustrating but mostly exciting, and Eric's first visit to South Park was the kind of quiet miracle that takes place inside a snow globe, a perfectly contained little bubble of glittery joy. His visit the following summer was far less enchanted, and then there was Nebraska and their grueling flight toward the west coast. Along the way there was lots of good sex. They were always physically compatible, though Kyle eventually got the feeling that Eric would like to be topped more often, and Kyle was only willing to do so on special occasions, as a favor to him. He preferred to use a vibrator rather than his fingers or dick, unable to conquer his 'issue with ass germs,' as Eric put it. More than the sex, Kyle misses the feeling of being adored, which was already gone by the time he went to visit Eric in Miami. He's fairly certain, despite the cheating, that Eric still loved him then, but the breathless adoration he'd had for Kyle as a morbidly obese sixteen-year-old has been wheedled away by the other people who are willing to be adored by Eric now, and who adore him mutually, possibly in a way that Kyle could never muster outside of that glittery snow globe week in Colorado.

When he's able to sleep again he dreams that he's in a car with Eric, headed toward California. He keeps trying the door, which is locked, and even if he could open it he couldn't jump. They're speeding down the highway, weaving between cars. Eric is sweating and drinking from an open beer that's clamped between his thighs. The cup holders are full of fast food garbage.

"But you don't understand," Kyle says to Eric, desperate. "I was already in California. I was just there."

"Impossible, Kyle," Eric says. "We're in Utah. Seven hours until California."

"But I'm supposed to see an apartment. I have plans, Eric!"

"Fuck your plans. You're imagining things. I've been planning this for years!"

"I want to call my mother," Kyle says. He checks his pockets and finds no cell phone, no insulin.

"Call her?" Eric scoffs. "Just turn around, she's in the backseat."

Kyle turns slowly, fearing a corpse, but Sheila is alive and frowning at him when he turns.

"Kyle, honestly," she says. "That boy kissed you when you were only fifteen. I should have him arrested!"

"You don't understand!" Kyle says again, to both of them. "I have to be there, I can't be in this car, _you guys can't tell me what to do!_ "

"Like hell we can't!" Eric says, and Sheila hums in agreement.

Kyle wakes up feeling worn out, like he's already lived a full day and is ready to sleep again. The light through the window is brutally bright. He groans and stretches, feeling guilty for his own subconscious suffering. He rarely dreams of Eric as an antagonist, but his teenage angst over his mother's controlling presence manifests often in dreams that she's locked him into the house in South Park and kept him from attending college, as if she would ever do that. He goes into the kitchen in his boxer shorts, enjoying the empty silence of the apartment as he eats stale cereal at the kitchen counter. His roommates were assigned by the school, and all three of them were fine but also loud and fairly thoughtless when it came to 'borrowing' Kyle's food and other supplies. He's glad they're gone, and daydreams about the Noe Valley apartment where Bridon lives, picturing French doors and a balcony with flowering vines, a real soaking tub, stainless steel appliances. When he's finished eating he calls Eric, still bleary and realizing only when Eric picks up that he doesn't actually have to apologize for that dream, or for telling Stan what happened between them.

"What's up?" Eric asks when he answers. He waited until the third ring and sounds annoyed, probably because Kyle didn't answer his last text, and possibly because he's in bed with somebody, sleeping in.

"Nothing," Kyle says. "I'm hanging around this empty apartment in my underwear, hungover."

"Yeah, same here."

Eric is often hungover. He drinks nightly, with his frat brothers, conquests, whomever. Not to the point that he's missing class or passing out in gutters, but Kyle worries about him, though it's not really his business anymore. Eric has been gaining weight since he joined the frat and discovered his love of beer, and though his current state of charismatic popularity was the straw that broke the back of their relationship, Kyle doesn't want to see Eric sink back into friendless insecurity if the weight gain continues.

"I guess I'm apartment hunting this week," Kyle says, though he hasn't checked his email for new responses to his roommate ad. "Going to look at a place Thursday. Or maybe tomorrow. I'm waiting to hear. Bebe is coming down to stay with me."

"Bebe?" Eric says. "Why?"

"Why not? We're friends, and we don't get to see each other that often. And she's having, you know. Romantic troubles."

"Oh, Jesus. How can you have a girl for a best friend and listen to all that period talk all the time?"

"Who said anything about periods? How can you stand being such a misogynistic fuckface?"

"Kyle, please. Just because I don't enjoy the company of women--"

"Okay, enough. I'm not having this conversation again. How are you? Other than hungover?"

"I'm fine. Why are you calling?"

"Jesus," Kyle says, offended. "Nice attitude. I'm just. I don't know, it's summer. I think about you in the summer. At the start, anyway."

"You didn't answer my text."

"Well, seeing as you called me a 'hot ginge,' I didn't think a response was really in order."

"Heh," Eric says, laughing at his own joke, if that's what it was. He's always said that Kyle isn't a ginger, because he doesn't have freckles, but that he's a 'ginge,' which is a hot ginger, apparently. Kyle doesn't particularly love the nickname. "I've been thinking about you, too," Eric says. "I was going to come to California and see you, but maybe not if that pouty hen is hanging around."

"She's not pouty. Stop insulting my friend. I could say a thing or two about fucking Trevor and Jefferson. Ugh, that name. I can't even say it without snarling."

"Did you call me just to give me a hard time or what?" 

"No. I just told you. I called because I've been thinking, you know. About the past. Fondly," he adds, which is not entirely a lie. He spent some time mourning for the good memories while lying in bed with his headache.

"Kyle. If you want my dick, just say so. I'll buy a plane ticket to hippie town right now. Right this fucking minute."

"Oh, what, you're not lying next to some spent twink?" Kyle says, flattered, and also concerned that Eric is serious. He's not ready to see him again, though Miami was years ago and he checks Eric's Facebook gallery daily.

"No twinks today," Eric says, his tone implying that there have been some recently and will be others soon. "How about you? Eh? Had any Frisco-style leather daddies in your boudoir lately?"

"Don't call it a boudoir. It's a campus apartment. A dorm bedroom."

"Does that mean yes?" Eric asks, not bothering to conceal his obvious alarm. Kyle grins and shakes his head, kind of wishing Eric was with him, hungover in his underwear in Kyle's quiet kitchen. Now that they bicker openly he sometimes wonders if the sex would be even better than it was when he was a teenager.

"Check out my Facebook sometime," Kyle says. "If you want to know who I'm sleeping with."

"As if you'd post pictures of your shameful leather daddy conquests."

"Why do you -- where do you get the idea I want leather daddies?"

"Well, I'm basically one, without the try-hard outfits."

Kyle laughs hard at that, and he can hear Eric laughing, too, more quietly. Eric _was_ very good at domination-style dirty talk, at least before he started up with that bizarre third-person thing.

"You should come visit sometime," Kyle says. "We could go trawling for leather daddies together."

"You wish," Eric says. There's something sad in his voice that Kyle wants to pet and comfort, in his old way. Sometimes he has to remind himself how much work it was to need to do that all the time. Eric is more self-sufficient now, less in need of coddling, but when they're together, or even just talking like this, he has a tendency to transform back into that kid who needed Kyle to pet his thigh and whisper in his ear.

"What do you think would have happened," Kyle asks, "If we met now? And not when we were fifteen and sixteen?"

"Hmm," Eric says, and he seems excited by the question, that sad quiver in his voice gone now. "Well, you would be drooling for my dick right away, as opposed to after a week of fat me whittling down your resistance."

"Shut up. You didn't whittle my resistance, Jesus. I fell in love with you!"

"That was later," Eric says. He seems taken off guard, though they'd said 'I love you' after every text, email, phone and Skype conversation, once. Before, during and after sex, too. "Right?"

"It was a process. I can't pinpoint the moment it happened. Can you?"

"Uh," Eric says. "Well. Huh. Let's see--"

"I'm not testing you," Kyle says, though he is kind of disappointed that Eric doesn't have a firmly remembered epiphany on hand for this discussion. "I'm sure it was gradual for you, too."

"Maybe it was when you kissed me," Eric says. "But anyway. Yeah. If we met now? I wouldn't be, like. Throwing away candy bars and shit."

"So?"

"So, you'd have more respect for me!"

"Not necessarily. I don't like frat boys. I liked you how you were. Before college."

"Oh, sure, when I was kidnapping you and stealing credit cards?"

"I wish you wouldn't call it kidnapping. I did go willingly, you know. And it was credit card fraud, technically."

"It would be better," Eric says, sharply. "If we met now. That's all I mean."

"I'm not sure you're right. I liked how we were. Even though it was messy and got fucked up. Not everybody has that, Eric. A big, crazy teenage romance. None of my friends did. I feel, like. Lucky, don't you?"

"Of course I feel lucky," Eric says. He sounds pissed off, not just in his usual blustering way but truly. "Jesus, Kyle. What if I'd never met you? I'd still be in my mom's basement in Kearney. All virginal and fat and -- Christ, I might have been a serial killer."

"You can't give me all the credit," Kyle says, though he's thought the same thing, once or twice. "Some other guy might have come along."

"Nope. Wouldn't have worked with some other guy. It had to be you."

"Aw," Kyle says, very glad to hear this. "That's true for me, too," he says, though if Stan had been his age -- but he hadn't been. "I don't think I would have tried anything gay until my mid-twenties if you hadn't been so upfront with me about what you wanted. I loved that about you. Even when it was pissing me off, you always said what you meant."

"That's right," Eric says, huffing. "I unlocked the sexual beast in you, also."

"Mhmm, I guess that's fair."

"You're damn right it is."

Kyle spends the rest of the day lounging around in bed, thinking about the sexual beast in him and how it's been hibernating, for the most part, since the last raucous days in Miami with Eric. Being with Eric had always felt safe, because he was Kyle's first and because Kyle trusted him to back off when asked to, but it had also been wild and exciting, sometimes weird in a way that made him feel like an adult. Being with other guys has ranged from good to uncomfortable, and no one has really set any fireworks off inside him. He thinks of that long ago kiss with Stan and holds his pillow over his face, as if to smother any brazen hope, but it doesn't work. He checks his laptop and phone every ten minutes or so, and beams when he sees a new email from Stan.

_Hey dude,_

_It was really good to see you again. I had so much fun hanging out last night. I hope you got home safe after I bought you those beers! Next time I'll drive you._

_Talked to Bridon and tomorrow works. He wants to meet for lunch at Regent Thai, which is right around the corner from his apartment. Then you can check out the apartment (if you're still interested after meeting him, haha, but he's cool, I think you'll like each other). I hope I'm not being pushy about this. I tried to explain to Bridon how I know you and he was giving me a weird look. I didn't go into details, don't worry._

_Anyway, how about 1:00pm? Is Thai food okay with you? I can tell him to pick another place if it's not._

_-Stan_

While Kyle is reading this email, he gets a second one from Stan, which is really more exciting than it should be.

_Sorry, I feel like that email was kind of unclear: I'll be there, too, at lunch tomorrow. So you won't have to meet Bridon alone or anything. Okay, let me know if that works. -S_

Kyle finds himself wanting to hug his laptop, call Bebe, and wiggle with joy atop his unwashed bedsheets. Stan said 'Next time I'll drive you,' implying that there will be evenings out together in the future, and he seems nervous about all of this in the cutest way. Kyle hurries to respond, no longer concerned that he'll seem overeager.

_Stan,_

_That sounds great. I love Thai food! I will probably like Bridon. I can't imagine someone you like being someone I wouldn't like. With the possible exception of Craig -- but I ended up liking even him, in the end._

He pauses to ponder this, wondering if he should delete some or all of it. Ultimately he decides it's like a fun in-joke between them, nothing Stan will take the wrong way, and sends.

The rest of the day passes in extreme slow motion, and Kyle tries to busy himself with packing. He puts on some DVDs and semi-pays attention to them, not making much progress with the packing. In the evening he does laundry and carefully selects a freshly cleaned outfit for lunch tomorrow: his chambray button-up, ironed and with the sleeves rolled just so, and dark jeans that are a little snug on his thighs. They make his ass look nice, and he can endure the tightness for one afternoon. Maybe he'll start running again this summer. Maybe the new neighborhood will be perfect for it, though he doubts that, because he still misses running through the desert at sunrise with only the eyes of fellow fat kids and supportive counselors on him as he struggled, red-faced, through his paces. 

He hopes Bridon will like him, and wonders if his chance with Stan will be blown if he doesn't click with Stan's friend. He's not sure he has a chance with Stan at all, that this isn't just some sort of recompense for what Stan probably still views as his mortifying transgression six years ago, that moment when his tongue slipped into Kyle's mouth. Just thinking about it makes Kyle roll around on his bed and kick at the covers like a sugar-addled toddler, and this joy combined with his anxiety keeps him up until almost three o'clock in the morning.

Kyle accidentally sleeps late and wakes in a panic, though he still has two hours to get ready, and he ends up dressed and ready to go with half an hour to spare. Anxious about being punctual, he leaves early and plans to walk to the BART slowly, but once he's on the move he can't help the quick, nervous pace of his steps, and he gets to the restaurant twenty minutes early. He loiters near the restaurant's front window, pretending to study the menu while he debates getting a table for three or waiting for Stan and Bridon to arrive. It's not especially warm out but he's starting to sweat, so he goes inside and drinks ice water at a table set for three, keeping his eyes on the door. The lovely evening with Stan now feels like a hallucination, and he fears he'll be less impressive when Stan has a real friend at his side. He realizes he has to pee and spends five excruciating minutes wondering if he should get up or wait, and then forgets about it entirely when Stan walks in with an alarmingly handsome man who looks like he would be more at home in L.A., though Kyle isn't sure if his sunglasses are ironically expensive or just old; they walk an enviable fine line. Stan is wearing jeans and a green t-shirt that says HOPWATER DIST. on it, and he's got a day's worth of stubble on his cheeks.

Kyle stands from the table and forces a smile, reminding himself that Bridon is Stan's straight friend, not his boyfriend, not even an ex. Stan spots him and waves. Kyle wishes he had thought to get his hair trimmed yesterday. Bridon's hair is amazing, straight and shiny and perfectly styled, and his smile seems warm and real when he shakes Kyle's hand.

"Bridon Gueermo," he says, and Kyle almost laughs. Stan should have warned him about that name. "It's great to meet you. Stan says you're my ideal roommate."

"Ha, well," Stan says, and he gives Kyle a sheepish look. He's fidgeting like he's not sure if he should clasp Kyle's hand like Bridon did or pull him into a friendly hug, and he sits down without doing either, dragging his chair closer to Kyle's. They both sit facing Bridon, as if this is a tandem interview. "I remember Kyle being very neat," Stan says. "We never had to dock him for leaving his clothes on the floor like the other kids."

"I can't believe Stan was your camp counselor," Bridon says, and Kyle is glad that Stan has at least told him that much. "I can totally picture him with that job, though. Stan with his guitar by the campfire, singing some song he wrote about the importance of being yourself. He could have been a children's entertainer, don't you think?" Bridon looks at Kyle, who isn't sure how to respond.

"Nah," Stan says. "You'd have to be too perfect. Like, morally upstanding? Not that I'm, uh." Stan touches a fork on the table and Kyle wants to grab him and tell him he is morally upstanding, and to apologize again for making him think he might not be. "Also," Stan says, "My dad and my uncle would have rode my ass for eternity if I turned into some kind of Rainbow Randolph with puppets dancing behind me."

"Who's Rainbow Randolph?" Kyle asks, trying to picture this. It's not that hard: Stan is so cute, so lovable. Moms would have fawned over him while their children swayed to his music, charmed.

"It's from _Death to Smoochy_ ," Bridon says. "That's like, Stan's favorite movie."

"No, it's not. I do like it, though," he says, to Kyle.

"I've never heard of it," Kyle says. "I'm so behind on music and movies and everything. Just everything, I'm such a--" He turns back to Bridon, remembering that he's supposed to be selling himself here. Already he wants to share space with this movie star-looking man who knows Stan's favorite movies. "I'm studying all the time," Kyle says. "Finishing up my public health degree, and now I'm trying to navigate the grad school application process, too. I really want to stay at Berkeley, but I may be half-dead by the time I put together an application, plus my thesis research--"

"Kyle's really smart," Stan says. "Obviously. Bridon was at Davis with me."

"Wasn't smart enough for Berkeley," Bridon says, smiling.

"There are dumb people at Berkeley," Kyle says, and Stan laughs. He seems more nervous than Kyle now that they're all seated.

They order food and talk more about the neighborhood, Bridon's ex-wife, and Bebe, the potential third roommate.

"Stan knows her," Kyle says. "This will sound ridiculous, but she was at camp, too."

"Jesus," Bridon says. "Must have been some summer."

"It was," Kyle says. He dares a glance at Stan and smiles when their eyes meet.

"There was this massive storm on our last day there," Stan says. "The three of us got caught out in it -- me and Kyle and this girl, Bebe. Maybe it forged some cosmic bond."

"Maybe," Kyle says, not fond of the idea that Bebe is an equal partner in whatever bond he shares with Stan.

"Well, she's welcome to sleep in Raquel's old office," Bridon says. "That could be a bedroom, but there's no bathroom attached. I hope she's not expecting a luxury suite. She's from Seattle?"

"She's been living in Oregon," Kyle says. "But I don't think she plans to go back now that she's finished school and getting away from this awful guy. I'd be awesome if she could stay in California past the summer. Maybe she'll find a job here."

"Don't hit on her," Stan says to Bridon, who rears backward a little.

"I won't!" he says. "Wait, why not?"

"She's, like--" Stan glances at Kyle. "Kind of fragile?"

"She's not sixteen anymore," Kyle says, though he appreciates Stan's concern. "She's fine. She can hold her own, whoever flirts with her."

"So she's happy?" Stan says. "Mostly?"

"Eh, well. She's working on it."

"Are you in touch with any of the other kids? You only told me about Bebe when we got coffee."

"We're not in touch, really," Kyle says, worrying Bridon will be bored by this discussion. "But I was Facebook friends with them after camp, and I still have access to their pages. Nothing too exciting. That Clyde kid got married. Butters went to Duke. Henrietta was never on Facebook, so I don't know about her. Who else -- oh, Tammy is a weather girl for some tiny local station. She was always sort of the happiest one of us. Well, her and Butters. I still email with Rebecca sometimes. She's in grad school, doing some microbiology research. And she's a lesbian."

"Cool," Stan says, and Bridon laughs.

They split the check three ways and head up Day Street toward Bridon's apartment, which is three stories tall with a white plaster exterior and terra cotta shingles, wedged between another apartment building and a tiny house with an old Volkswagen Beetle parked in its driveway. The place looks a bit worn down from the street, and Kyle isn't expecting much as they head up the stairs to the top floor, but Bridon opens the door to a bright, airy space that instantly makes Kyle feel more optimistic. The apartment has wood floors and an open kitchen with the kind of new-looking appliances that Kyle envisioned, and a large window across from the door that offers a decent neighborhood view. There's no glimpse of the Bay or vine-draped balcony from which to spot it, but Kyle is impressed, and he likes the small bedroom that would be his. It's painted periwinkle blue and has two windows, plus an attached bathroom with a sink and toilet. There's a black dresser against the wall, a rug with some clumps of dust clinging to its edges, but no bed.

"The shower's in the master," Bridon says. "I guess that's awkward."

"Bridon's super clean," Stan says.

"I'm not super clean. You're making me sound anal. That was Raquel, not me. I'm regular clean. Stan is sub-clean."

"I'm not that bad," Stan says, and Kyle thinks of his little room at camp: mussed sheets and shirts draped three-deep over the back of his desk chair, several pairs of sand-caked shoes on the floor. Kyle had been so attracted to the boyish disorder of it all.

"I like it," Kyle says, lingering in the center of the room. "I guess I'd have to buy a bed. The one I've been sleeping on belongs to Berkeley."

"There's a futon shop on Cesar Chavez," Stan says, and Kyle grins to himself, glad that he's got his back to Stan and Bridon. Something about the way Stan said that was hopeful, as if he's afraid the lack of bed might be a deal-breaker for Kyle.

"Fuck futons, man," Bridon says. "Kyle, how old are you?"

"Twenty-one in a couple of weeks."

"Futons are for children. You're a man now. Time to buy a bed."

"Jesus," Stan says, but Kyle likes the sound of that.

"You're right," he says. "You're totally right."

"So, are we doing this?" Bridon asks. "I'd charge you nine hundred a month plus utilities. That's a bargain for a place like this, especially with that private toilet. If we get a third roommate it'll go down, and your friend Bebe can take that on this summer, if she's willing."

"BART's kind of a hike," Stan says. "Twenty minute walk."

"That's alright," Kyle says. "I could use the exercise, frankly."

"Whatever, you look great."

They grin at each other, and it takes Kyle a moment to remember that Bridon is there. He turns to him and nods, still blushing.

"When can I move in?" he asks.

They settle on Saturday, and Stan walks Kyle out. He then insists on walking him to the BART station.

"I'd rather just walk around the neighborhood if you have time," Kyle says, feeling bold.

"Yeah," Stan says, nodding. "The park's about ten minutes away."

"Perfect, good, yeah. Which park?"

"Bernal Heights," Stan says. They grin at each other again, and Kyle lets his shoulder just nearly touch Stan's when they turn to head toward the park. He just agreed to move in with Stan's friend, and it feels a bit like he's accepted some kind of corresponding engagement offered by Stan. It's ridiculous, but he can't suppress the sensation that he's been promised something big. A nine hundred dollar rent will leave him barely a hundred bucks a month plus whatever he can make from his shifts at FatApple's, but he'll make it work somehow. Bebe can help him pay during the summer, and maybe afterward, too.

"Bridon seems cool," Kyle says as they're heading down Mission. "I liked what he said about buying a bed. I'm going to be broke, though, unless I get more hours at work."

"Man, I could probably talk him down a little more."

"More?" Kyle grins at Stan. He already suspected he's been given a discount; rent for under a thousand in this neighborhood seems fairly impossible. Stan shrugs.

"Bridon's spoiled. His mom's been helping him since his divorce. His dad is this Hollywood asshole who does choreography for movies, and he was really pushy about trying to make Bridon a child star when he was a kid. Bridon's ex was kind of like that, too. She wanted him to be famous and get serious about a pop career."

"Creepy."

"Yeah, it was. I'm glad they broke up. I've only met Bridon's dad once, and I think he's gay. He tried to get me to go to this bar with him, and he kept touching my arms."

"God," Kyle says. He thinks of Craig and wonders if Stan is still into older men. "Was he hot? Like Bridon?"

"No, Bridon's mom is the hot one. Ironically, I guess. You think Bridon's hot?" Stan smiles like this is a joke. Kyle shrugs.

"He's that pretty boy type. Not really rugged enough for me."

"Rugged. Like Eric?"

"Mhmm, no. I wouldn't call Eric rugged. He had a very soft underbelly, you know."

"I guess I have that," Stan says.

"Well, who doesn't? Let's see, how would I describe Eric's type. Loud, imposing? But I'm not looking for guys like him."

"You don't date big, surly dudes anymore?"

"No! Most of the guys I've been with at college are skinny academics."

"Uh-huh. So you like smart guys."

"No, ugh, I've slept with them, but they annoy me. But, I mean -- of course I like smart guys, smart people, but I don't want to date an academic. I don't know what my type is." Yes, he does: he's strolling alongside his type right now, smelling his peanut-lime breath and Seventh Generation detergent. "What's your type?" Kyle asks, shouldering Stan. He's elated when Stan lingers close after this physical contact, smiling down at the sidewalk.

"I don't know," Stan says. "All the guys at home, in high school, were such stoner douchebags. And here everyone's either rich or busking on weekends, seems like. Not that it matters, about money, but I feel like I'm somewhere between the two. I'm busking at people's weddings, sort of."

"Surely you're paid up front?" Kyle says, alarmed by the thought of Stan putting out a tip jar before taking the stage.

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. That was just a bad joke."

"No, I get what you're saying. I guess that's how I feel at school. Everyone is either deciding they need to 'work outside the institution' or laughing too hard at the professors' stupid jokes. I work hard, I kiss a little ass here and there, but I don't want to surrender my life to the program. And I feel like I totally have, so far. Which is good, but now I've got grad school coming up, and then what? Surrender to work?"

"You'll find a balance," Stan says. "How about that risk taking thing? How do you, uh. Indulge that?"

"Oh, I don't know. By telling my mother I won't be coming home for the summer? That's like risking death."

Stan laughs, and Kyle reminds himself not to lean on scary mother humor, afraid that it makes him sound pathetic and young.

When they reach the park it's not crowded, and they find a spot on one of the sprawling, grassy hills that overlook the city. Kyle still finds this particular kind of view breathtaking, and he can tell by the way Stan looks out over the expanse of packed-together rooftops that stretch out toward the Bay: he's enchanted, too.

"It reminds me of a dream version of my hometown," Kyle says. "Like, you could go up in the mountains and see the whole town, but it wasn't impressive like this, it didn't give you this sense of all the possibility that's stretched out in front of you. It made you realize how small and self-contained the whole world of that place was. And it was cold so much of the year. Freezing."

"I used to get really excited about snow," Stan says. "It was like a Christmas magic kind of thing."

"Oh, South Park is super into Christmas! Have I told you we were the only Jewish family there?"

"You mentioned that, yeah. Back at camp. It must have been so, like. Lonely?" Stan looks over at Kyle, shifting toward him in a way that makes Kyle think Stan's arm might slip around him.

"I was the loneliest kid in the world," Kyle says. "Though actually, maybe not. Maybe that was Eric."

"That's what you guys bonded over?" Stan says, looking back at the city.

"Among other things." Kyle really can't get started talking about Eric again. That would be the worst move ever while sitting close to Stan like this, getting romantic about the city together. "Thanks so much for introducing me to Bridon," Kyle says, softly. "I really appreciate it. I was being risky, I guess, diving into the roommate pool blind. It's good to know I'll be living with someone I can trust."

"You found him trustworthy?" Stan asks, smiling a little.

"I trust you," Kyle says, and Stan turns to look at him again. "I always did. Right away, at camp. Remember? How I was just like, 'by the way, I'm gay.' You were the first person I ever told." He actually can't remember now; did he tell Eric first? Not in so many words. He may have implied it, probably inadvertently.

"I remember," Stan says. "You were so -- I just wanted to protect you. And I knew that I couldn't, especially after you saw me and Craig and started asking me how to give blow jobs."

"Oh, god." Kyle covers his face with his hands. "I was the most embarrassing little fucker ever."

"Nah, I admired you. I knew you'd be okay, because you weren't afraid like me."

"Afraid of what?"

"I don't know, of who you really were? It took me longer to get okay with it. But I am now," he says, a little hurriedly.

They sit there for a long time, watching the city and talking about school, work, friends, boyfriends. Kyle avoids the subject of Eric and grills Stan on his more significant relationships. He's starting to get the idea that Stan hasn't had many.

"I feel like girls are more into me than guys," Stan says. "That's how it was when I was in the band, anyway. The ones who couldn't get Bridon would refocus on me."

"I'm sure plenty of guys are into you," Kyle says. "Maybe just not the ones you want." He stops himself from offering his fifteen-year-old self as an example, aching to know if he could ever be Stan's type after those miscalculated first moves.

"Your stomach is growling," Stan says, poking Kyle with his elbow. "Need to take your blood sugar or anything?"

"I guess I should." Kyle digs his kit from his pocket, feeling less awkward about pulling his supplies out than he usually does. Stan knows the drill.

"It's funny," Stan says as he watches Kyle take a reading. "That summer, it became such a big part of my routine. Three times a day, sometimes more, making sure you got your insulin. After I left that job, I'd get this pang, this kind of distracted worry, and eventually I'd realize what I was afraid I'd forgotten. It was you, your medicine, our little meetings at that nurse's office."

"Seriously?" Kyle says, keeping his eyes on his supplies. His blood sugar is okay, but his heart has started slamming.

"Yeah. Then I'd hope you were okay, wherever you were."

"I was okay," Kyle says. He looks up, and for a moment he's sure Stan will swoop in and give him a kiss on the lips, but he just takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter.

"Do you want to eat something?" Stan asks. "It's almost six."

"It's -- are you serious?" Kyle noticed the light changing slightly, but he'd had no idea they'd been here for so long. "Don't you have plans?" he asks when Stan helps him up.

"I have to go to a party later," Stan says. "It's a former client. She says she has a friend to introduce me to, someone who might want to hire me for her wedding. I'm supposed to bring my guitar."

"Oh. So it's like work."

"It's not like work, it is work. But that's not until nine. We could walk to Emmy's. Have you been there?"

Kyle hasn't, and the restaurant turns out to be the kind of place he would have once pictured in a daydream about dating Stan: unpretentious pasta served in big portions, cozy cafe tables and friendly servers. They share a big plate of spaghetti with meatballs, and Kyle feels like he's on a real date, though he's not sure Stan would call it that.

"Got any big plans for your twenty-first birthday?" Stan asks.

"Not really. All my friends have left town for the summer, or for vacation. Bebe will be here, though."

"And me," Stan says, and he smiles when Kyle looks up at him with surprise. "I mean. We're friends, right?"

"Right," Kyle says, feeling as if he's just been shunted back into the role he played when they were fifteen and nineteen: Stan's friend, little Kyle with his blood sugar readings and awkward questions about gay sex, though he supposes he doesn't need to ask those anymore. He wants to, though, wants to know what his friend Stan gets up to in bed now that he's out and living his adult life as a beautiful wedding singer. Kyle wants to know from first hand experience, mostly.

"So here's what I'm thinking," Stan says when he's walking Kyle to the BART station. "You need a bed, right?"

"Right," Kyle says, flushing. He's stuffed after that meal and beginning to feel sleepy, wanting to go back to Stan's messy room in Oakland and curl up for a nap with him.

"So on Saturday morning, I was thinking I could give you a ride to a mattress store, then we could tie whatever you get to the top of my car, go pick up your stuff -- I could help you move, basically. If you need help?"

"Oh, god, yes! I do! That's perfect. Stan." Kyle stops walking and turns to him, feeling almost tearful with gratitude, and with the greedy hope for more that's already piling on top of it. "You're, like. The greatest person I've ever known, really."

"What!" Stan laughs. "I hope not. I'm not that great."

"You are, though. You are."

"Well, hey. I'm glad you're, um. This'll be good. You and Bridon, roommates. We'll hang out. You and me, I mean. If you want."

Kyle nods, clamping his lips shut around what might have been gushing agreement. He didn't have a drink with dinner, but he feels drunk anyway, swept up into a whirlwind of sudden good fortune. It's almost eight-thirty and Stan needs to get to his party, but Kyle can't make himself turn and go into the train station.

"Saturday," he says, to assuage the difficulty of parting. "What time?"

"Bright and early, right? Nine or ten?"

"Sounds good," Kyle says, and he makes himself wave goodbye. "Enjoy the party."

"Ha, yeah, right. Want to come with me?"

Stan grins, and Kyle can't tell if he's joking or not. He laughs and turns to walk into the station, wanting to run back and say, _Yes, of course, let's go_.

Back at his campus apartment, Kyle tries packing some more, but he ends up flopping onto his bed and daydreaming about Stan, the apartment in Noe Valley, and how the rest of the summer will go. He should call Bebe and tell her he found a place, but he postpones it in favor of watching the stars come out through his window, feeling a tingling sense of change pressing in around him in a way that he hasn't since he was fifteen. Something good has been building since Stan answered his roommate email, and it's growing bigger and studier, involving mattress purchases now. It's a bubble, Kyle thinks, though he's afraid to gets his hopes up. He imagines this bubble solidifying anyway, forming around a brand new, grown-up mattress that's big enough for him and Stan to lie on together.

"This is weird," Bebe says when he calls to give her the news. "Isn't it?"

"It's not like I'm moving in with Stan," Kyle says. "It's his friend. It's a vetted situation, Bebe. And you'll love the apartment. Though I guess you'll have to buy a bed, too."

"It still seems crazy," she says. "But if the alternatives are staying here or going home to live with my parents, I guess I'll take it."

"We're going to have a great summer," Kyle says, wanting her to believe this.

"Yeah," she says, and she sighs. "I need to get out of here, Kyle."

"I know you do. Come tomorrow!"

"I can't, I have to watch Trina while Mike drives to Portland for a job."

"Bebe, what the hell! I thought you broke up!"

"I did, okay, but it's not his three-year-old's fault! Otherwise he'll leave her with the Peruvian, and I don't trust her with children."

"She's not your child, though. You need to detach. Cut all ties--"

"Kyle. I love you, but you sound like your mother."

"You don't even know my mother!"

"I know her through your stories! And how many times did you ignore my advice to 'detach' from Eric? And now you're back with this camp counselor guy? It's fucking weird!"

"He's not -- we're not -- Jesus, are you sure you even want to live with me this summer?"

"Yes, okay, yes. Just don't pretend it's that simple to leave an ex-boyfriend behind. When's the last time you talked to Eric? Huh?"

Kyle says nothing, fuming.

"That's what I thought," Bebe says. She sighs. "I'll be there on Saturday. I have a surprise for you, also."

"What kind of surprise?"

"You'll see. It's not that big. I'm sorry I brought up Eric."

"I don't care if you bring him up. I don't know why I still call him."

"Me either. Look, I'll see you Saturday. Everything will be fine. I'm getting a ride from Slim Jim, he's going to some orchard in San Jose. Just text me the address."

Kyle realizes then that he never got the actual address from Bridon. He thinks of texting Stan, but decides that would be overkill after they spent the whole day together. He'll get the address Saturday morning, when they go mattress shopping, and send it to Bebe then. All he has to do between then and now is survive the excruciating wait.

That night, and again on Friday morning, he tries to kill time by alternately researching mattress brands and masturbating to gay porn. He's been bored with porn for a while, after having overdosed on it following the freedom of moving out of his parents' house, where he always feared that his mother could somehow spy on his browsing history. Now he's surprised to find that the break that he took from his old sites hasn't reinvigorated his interest in them, though he does get hard and come three times over the course of three hours. It's a rainy, foggy day and his window is gray, still uncovered. When he jerks off he thinks about that ranger station, the rain pounding the windows and thunder ratting the building's frame. He imagines Stan being rough with him, unhinged by need and tearing Kyle's clothes off, taking his virginity on the floor while lightning flashes outside. After he's come, he pictures himself comforting Stan in the guilty aftermath, then running away with him, neither of them willing to return to camp and explain Kyle's ripped clothes. They could have been fugitives together. It probably wouldn't have been for the best. Kyle feels lucky, watching the clock on his laptop screen and anticipating the move tomorrow morning, Bebe's arrival, his upcoming birthday. Everything that happened during his summer at camp feels as if it's come home to again, less transient and stormy now.

Something is still bugging him, making him anxious, and he realizes what it is when he indulges his daily habit of checking Eric's Facebook page. Eric has put up new pictures. He almost always does after a weird phone call with Kyle, and as usual he's made a special effort to look like he's having a great time with other guys, holding red Solo cups and making vaguely homoerotic gestures that might be joking or sincere. Kyle has lost track of which of Eric's frat brothers are straight and which are bisexual when drunk. Eric has a sunburn across his cheeks and nose, and he's smiling in his slightly-crooked, canine tooth-showing fashion, which used to make Kyle's cock jerk to attention if Eric had the right look in his eyes while he smiled like that. Casually predatory was how Kyle used to think of it, like Eric could have him right then if he wanted, and maybe he did. Kyle closes the laptop, wondering what will happen when it's him posting pictures on Facebook and Eric recognizing Stan in them. It's not like Eric can call up Mackey and get Stan fired, or prove that anything ever happened between them, but Kyle is worried that somehow he'll just know, and that it will devastate him.

He goes to the campus convenience store and purchases a dusty box of brownie mix. He has eggs and milk that he needs to use, and with his roommates gone he can indulge in the smell of brownies that fills the apartment without guilt. When the brownies are cooling he runs back to the store for vanilla ice cream, and he eats a big sundae in front of a bad movie on the campus channel, wondering if Stan had fun at that party last night, and what he's doing tonight. He checks his phone, but he only has a new email from his mother: _Aunt Maureen wants us to join the family on Fire Island for Independence Day. Are you too independent to spend the holiday with us? Won't you at least come home for your birthday? I worry about you, Kyle._

Kyle falls asleep on the sofa with the TV still on, and he dreams that he's in camp again, only this time it looks a lot like Fire Island. He's looking for Stan, asking around, and just when he sees Stan out on the beach, wading into the water, he wakes up. He drinks some milk, washes his brownie dishes and brushes his teeth. In bed, he can't sleep, and he drags his laptop onto his chest and takes down his roommate ads, tired of the only emails he gets coming from campus mailing lists and people looking for someone to fill space in their apartment.

The morning is still hazy, and Kyle hurries into the shower at eight. He wonders if Stan is punctual, generally: so far this week he has been, but he was sometimes late to the nurse's station during camp. Kyle packs up the last of his toiletries as he gets ready, strips the sheets off his bed and gathers everything into a pile near the apartment's front door. He dashes to his phone when he hears it buzz on the kitchen counter, and is glad to see Stan is calling, not just texting.

"Ready for this?" Stan asks, and Kyle presses his hips flush against the counter, aroused by that. Stan's voice sounds deeper over the phone.

"I'm ready," Kyle says, hoping he doesn't sound too breathy.

He hurries downstairs with his laundry bag and a shoulder bag full of schoolbooks, feeling a bit ridiculous for how excited he is to see Stan's car. It's not that he hopes it's impressive; it's just a glimpse into Stan's life the way his room at the camp was, and these glimpses are fascinating to Kyle, who would happily listen to Stan talk about what kind of shampoo, toothpaste and dish soap he uses, though Kyle would bet he doesn't have a favorite dish soap. He probably just buys whatever his parents always used.

This is Kyle's mindset as he searches the cars parked outside for Stan's: what type of dish soap Stan grew up using, and if he defaulted to that brand as an adult. He tells himself to calm down. He probably should have gotten some exercise yesterday instead of staying cooped up in his mostly empty apartment with a pan of brownies for company. He's still got more than half the pan leftover and wonders if it would be weird to offer some to Stan. When he hears a car door open he turns to see Stan getting out of a nondescript blue car that's parked down the block. Stan starts jogging toward Kyle, and Kyle jogs toward him. By the time they're a few feet away from each other they're both laughing.

"Why are you running?" Stan asks.

"I don't know, why are you?"

"You were waiting, I -- here, I'll take your stuff. I got you a coffee."

"You got me a coffee?" Kyle can't stop beaming, and he doesn't really care if he looks too happy, too excited. Stan shrugs and takes the bag of laundry from him.

"It's from Philz," he says. "Same kind we got the other day, only hot. 'Cause it's kind of chilly out."

"Thank you, that's -- I made brownies. Do you want some brownies?"

"What?" Stan says, and they both laugh.

They put Kyle's things in the car and retrieve their coffees. Kyle's is the perfect temperature: still warm, but not so hot he's afraid the next sip might scald his tongue. Kyle shows Stan up to his place, and they eat brownies at the kitchen counter while they drink their coffee.

"These are really good," Stan says. He's got a little bit of chocolate at the corner of his lips. Kyle wants to kiss him so bad. His stomach aches, but he stuffs another brownie in his mouth anyway.

"It's from a mix," Kyle says. "Not from scratch." 

"You've got something," Stan says, pointing to his lips, and Kyle wipes at his mouth with the heel of his hand, wishing he was crazy enough to offer to lick Stan's brownie smudge off.

"You too," he says instead, and points.

They manage to get all of Kyle's remaining things into the car in three trips, and he's glad for once that the entirety of his possessions fits into a few boxes and duffel bags. He's wired as they drive toward the mattress store, and he checks his blood sugar before diverting his attention to the music Stan has playing. He doesn't recognize the song, but he likes it.

"I bought a Communications CD," Kyle confesses when they're stopped at a red light. Stan snorts and looks over at him in disbelief.

"Well," he says. "Allow me to apologize, as the lead guitarist."

"It wasn't bad! I'm not the hugest fan of the way Bridon emotes when he sings, but. Jesus, I can't believe I'm going to live with the lead singer of your old band. I can't believe I'm in your car!"

"What's so great about my car?" Stan asks. It's a Toyota, and the windshield is dirty at the corners, where the wipers don't reach. "It's eleven years old."

"I don't know," Kyle says, reminding himself again to reel it in a little or risk scaring the shit out of Stan with his excitement. "I missed you. After camp. Our goodbye was so. And when we had, you know. The night before, the storm." He makes himself shut up, wishing he hadn't had coffee and sugar for breakfast.

"Yeah," Stan says, keeping his eyes on the road. The traffic light changes, and the car jerks a little when he pulls ahead. "Seeing your mother, after that. I pretty much wanted to die."

"But you still came and gave me that CD. God, that meant so much to me."

Stan smiles, but he seems a little sad, as if Kyle's reminder of his guilt has ruined their cheerful mood. Kyle wants to blurt more reassurances, to tell Stan that his mother never knew a thing, but he knows he should change the subject.

"I'm so excited about buying a bed," he says, idiotically.

"I've actually never bought one," Stan says. "I'm sleeping on my ex-roommate's old mattress. He left it when he moved. So I guess, after today, you'll be more of an actual adult than me."

"Oh, yeah right," Kyle says, though he likes the idea of Stan thinking of him as an adult now.

The mattress store is on Van Ness, in what appears to be the mattress store district. Kyle had no idea there was one, and is impressed that Stan knew where to find it. They go into a store called Marcia's and start winding through the selections on the sales floor.

"We're just looking," Stan says when a smiling salesman in a tie approaches. Kyle feels jumpy with glee, maybe from the caffeine but also because they must look like a couple browsing for a mattress to sleep on together. He's so distracted by this that he can't focus on any of the mattress facts Stan relates as they press their fingers into the pillowtops of each one. Kyle nods along as if he's carefully considering the merits of box springs versus memory foam, really only trying to imagine Stan reclining on each of them, and how it would feel to crawl into his arms at the end of a long school day.

"You seem knowledgeable about mattresses," Kyle says. "For someone who's never bought one."

"I did some reading," Stan says. "Last night."

"Oh. Me too." But Kyle didn't really adsorb anything he read, switching from mattress recommendations to porn, then to fantasies about Stan and thunderstorms.

He ends up splurging on a full-sized iComfort mattress at the third store they visit, partly because Stan climbs onto it and stretches out beside him when he tests it out. They look over at each other, smile, and it feels right: this is Kyle's bed. Fifteen hundred dollars on Kyle's credit card later, they're helping the warehouse guy tie it to the top of Stan's car.

"You guys getting rid of an old mattress?" the guy asks.

"No," Stan says.

"Moving into a new place?"

"Yep," Stan says, and he gives the guy a tip. Something about the way he hands over the cash makes Kyle proud, as if Stan is his thoughtful boyfriend, taking care of the gratuity. He didn't correct the guy's implication that they're together. Kyle has to remind himself that this doesn't mean they are, but he can feel something building between them, and it's much more solid than their connection during camp, something he feels like he could actually grab hold of if he works up the nerve. If they'd been connected by a string back then, this feeling is more like settling into a blanket that's big enough for both of them, like the one Kyle used to pull Stan to him that night during the storm.

At the apartment, Kyle begins to regret that they were too proud to pay for the delivery of the mattress by professionals. Getting it up three stories is not easy, mostly because of the angles on the old stairwell, and by the time they get it to the third floor Kyle is sweating and breathless, embarrassed by how out of shape he is. Stan seems similarly affected, despite his larger arm muscles. They set up the bed in Kyle's room without much discussion, and they're both quiet on the way back down for the rest of his stuff, breathing hard.

"I need to work out more," Kyle says.

"Me too," Stan says. "Maybe we could run together or something."

"God, yeah," Kyle says, and he regrets how sexual that sounded, but Stan just smiles and opens the trunk of his car.

This time it takes four trips to convey all of Kyle's things, and they're both panting as they ascend with the final boxes. Kyle's desk lamp is protruding from the top of the box Stan is carrying, and when they get to the room Stan takes it out, sets it on top of the dresser and plugs it in. Kyle sits on the bed, his t-shirt soaked and his cock getting hard from the sight of Stan turning the seam of his lamp shade around so that it doesn't show, or maybe it's the sound of their heavy breathing in the small room that's making him erect. Or the feeling of a brand new bed under his ass, spongy and virginal.

"There," Stan says when the lamp has been adjusted to his liking. "Now you're moved in."

"Thank you so much," Kyle says, his voice almost breaking, more with suppressed arousal than gratitude. Stan looks at him and nods slowly.

"Let's, um. Let's see if Bridon has anything cold to drink."

They go into the kitchen. Kyle feels as if he's vibrating with something that's both glaringly obvious and infuriatingly subtle. He never learned how to make the first move, though he's tried it a few times, always as clumsily as he did when he yanked Stan against him and licked his mouth. But Stan had licked back, and his hand is shaking when he opens Bridon's fridge, Kyle still panting behind him.

"Fuck," Stan says, his voice a little weak. "He only has beer."

"I'll take a cold beer," Kyle says. "Anything cold."

Stan gets two beer bottles out and pops off the caps with an opener that's attached to his keychain. He leaves his keys splayed on the counter and walks to Kyle, handing him a beer.

“Here's to your new place,” Stan says, and they click their bottles together. Kyle drinks, and he's still gulping from his beer when Stan plunks his deliberately onto the counter. Some beer actually dribbles from the corner of Kyle's lips when Stan walks to him, breathing hard again. Kyle opens his mouth to apologize for being disgusting, but Stan licks the residue from Kyle's cheek before he can, sweeping his tongue into Kyle's mouth and grabbing Kyle's hips with both hands. Kyle kisses back as best he can, his cock springing to attention again when his tongue slides against Stan's. “Sorry,” Stan says when he pulls back, before Kyle can really register what just happened. He pulls Kyle closer, until their heaving chests are pressed together and Kyle can smell Stan's sweat. “I missed you, too,” Stan says.

“Oh,” Kyle says, and it comes out in an embarrassing little chirp, but he doesn't care: Stan is melting into him, kissing him again. He walks Kyle backward until his back hits the wall, and when Kyle snaps his hips he can feel Stan's hard dick through his jeans, against his thigh. “Jesus, fuck,” Kyle says, whispering this against Stan's mouth when they pull apart to check each other's eyes. Stan's are darker than Kyle has ever seen them – or anyone's – and he's shaking not like he's scared but like he's holding himself back, licking his lips. 

“God, I wanted it to be you, so bad, when I read that Craigslist post,” Stan says, sounding upset about it. “I feel like such a fucking lunatic.”

“What?” Kyle puts his hands on Stan's face, drawing him in close again. “Why?”

“Because I want you so much. So much now, and I knew you back then—”

“Stan, that doesn't matter anymore, I'm—”

“You don't understand, Kyle, I've never wanted someone so fucking bad—”

“Me too,” Kyle says, almost tearful with the fear that Stan might not believe him, that he might still see too much of that fifteen-year-old kid. He leans up to put his lips against Stan's ear. “I want you inside me,” he says, and he means it just as desperately as he did then, though at the time he had only really wanted a promise that he wouldn't lose Stan forever, that he couldn't. Now he wants that and Stan's actual dick up his ass, as hard and fast as he can get it. “Please, Stan – please tell me you carried that mattress all the way up here so you could fuck me on it.” 

Stan groans and grabs Kyle's legs, hoisting him up and bracing him against the wall. He kisses Kyle's throat like he's just barely restraining himself from taking a bite of something ripe and delicious, his teeth grazing Kyle's skin. Kyle wants to be devoured entirely, his muscles going slack with submission when Stan squeezes his ass with both hands. He hopes Stan will leave marks on his neck, his ass, everywhere. 

“Please,” Kyle cries, not sure how many times he's moaned that now: five, maybe ten. “Please, Stan, please, I need you—”

“I know you do,” Stan say, licking over the raw skin on Kyle's neck. “Every time you look at me. God, Kyle, the way you look at me makes me fucking insane.” 

“Go insane on my ass,” Kyle says, well beyond subtlety, and he laughs at himself when Stan pulls back to grin at him. 

“Are you sure?” Stan lets Kyle's legs slide down until he's half-standing, half-propped up in a jelly-like state of suspension between Stan and the wall. He pushes Kyle's sweaty curls off his forehead and kisses his nose. “I really. Really like you. I don't want to go too fast.”

“It's not too fast!” Kyle says, his voice breaking. “It's, like, six years in the making. I know I seemed like some dumb kid with a boner for his crush, but I fell in love with you that summer. Okay? It ripped my heart out when I had to leave. I thought I'd never see you again, I thought—”

“Shh, oh, Kyle, god, I know—”

They kiss all the way to the bedroom, stumbling there and crashing into the door before Stan kicks it shut behind them. They're still kissing when they fall onto the bed, and Stan laughs a little as Kyle tears his shirt off. 

“God,” Kyle says, staring up at Stan while he leans back onto his knees to undo his jeans. “You look. You're so beautiful, fuck. Guys must tell you that all the time.” 

“Guys say a lot of things. Nobody else looks at me like you do.” 

“Like what?” Kyle asks, self-conscious. 

“It's corny, but it's like you really see me. Even back then. Like there's no point in trying to act cool because you just see right through me, into me. Jesus, sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” Kyle asks, reaching for him. 

“I'm talking too much,” Stan says. He strips his jeans off, then his socks. 

“I like the way you talk about me,” Kyle says. He takes his shirt off slowly, not really wanting to show Stan the flab he's regained in the past few years. Stan falls onto him like he's been flicked back into devouring mode by the sight of Kyle's pale chest, and Kyle shouts when Stan slides down to lick his right nipple, reaching over to roll the left one hard between his fingers. 

“That okay?” Stan asks, looking up. His voice is so soft, the question so sincere; Kyle strokes Stan's hair and nods, biting his lip when it quivers.

“It's good,” he says, whispering, and Stan put his mouth on Kyle's left nipple, nibbling and licking at it until Kyle shouts again. “Good,” Kyle says when Stan pauses. “Still good.” 

“Shit,” Stan says when Kyle starts to take off his pants. “I've got a condom, but. Do you have lube?”

“Stan,” Kyle says. He sits up on his elbows, chest heaving and pants half-down. “We just carried eight armloads of my shit up here. There's like, five different potential lubes in this room, at least.” 

Stan eyes light up when he grins, and Kyle feels like he's won a prize. He's finally, for once in his life, said the right thing – though really, Stan has always made him feel like he mostly says the right things. It's a singular quality, in terms of all the people Kyle has ever known. 

They kiss for a long time before the search for lube begins, and Kyle nods eagerly at the first tube Stan finds. He doesn't really own five different varieties; that was exaggeration for the sake of the joke. He only owns two: the basic KY that Stan located, and a fancier kind that a friend turned him onto, with soothing aloe and a slight honey scent. They can try that one later: Kyle is so ready he would accept toothpaste as lube. 

“So, um,” Stan says when he's standing at the end of the bed, his hands on the waistband of his boxers. He seems like he's going to say something, to announce his dick's arrival in some fashion, but then he just takes off the boxers and kicks them away. Kyle leaks into the y-front of his briefs, staring. He sort of knew Stan's cock would be wonderful, but it's perfect in ways he couldn't have anticipated: not just length (eight inches?) and width (a good stretch by the looks of it, but not the kind that will burn all the way in like Eric's did) but also in foreskin quality, the dark blush of his arousal, pubes to balls ratio, everything. 

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” Kyle says when he realizes he's just lying there drooling over Stan's cock. He shoves his briefs off and spreads his legs, flushing all the way to his chest. He hasn't been with anyone since New Year's Eve, and that was his friend Jordan, who tried to talk Kyle into topping him for ten minutes before finally agreeing to a half-hearted and half-clothed fuck in the bathroom at the party they were at. He can't remember the last time he was this naked in front of a man, so exposed that he rechecks the door to make sure it's fully shut. 

“Kyle,” Stan says, walking stiffly to the bed. He lowers himself carefully onto Kyle, as if he's afraid his dick might pierce Kyle's delicate skin. Kyle pulls him down into a kiss, wrapping his legs around Stan's back. They both groan and grind together, slowly at first, testing the friction of each other's bodies. It's warm and fucking perfect for Kyle; he has to wipe drool from the corner of his lips when Stan nuzzles his cheek. “You're fucking adorable,” Stan whispers, and Kyle laughs. “You are,” Stan says, and he nips at Kyle's jaw, then his ear. “At that camp, goddammit. I just remember wanting to hug you, so many times. And then I finally did.” 

“I didn't want you to let me go,” Kyle says, and for a moment his eyes are wet, but it pulses through him quickly and is gone when Stan kisses him again. 

They go slow at first, pausing between every new touch to kiss, but as soon as Stan's fingers are in Kyle he loses the soft, underwater feeling of exploring Stan's weight and taste. He throws his head back, presses his hips down and grinds, wanting more. 

“Fuck me,” he begs, his lips bumping against Stan's. “Please, now. God, I need your dick—”

“Shit,” Stan says. “I left – the condom's on the floor, in my wallet, in my jeans—”

“So get it?” Kyle says, laughing, and Stan moans like having to peel himself off of Kyle is a herculean task. Kyle rolls onto his side and admires Stan's body as he leaves the bed and crouches down to get the condom. He wants to tell Stan that he has the perfect amount of body hair –- neither bear-like nor twinkishly groomed –- but that would probably be weird. 

The buildup has already pushed them both close to the edge, and Kyle knows Stan will barely outlast him; he's already trembling when he slides in, whimpering when Kyle gathers him down for a kiss. Kyle feels like it's been years since he was fucked, his ass clenching greedily even as Stan stretches him wider than Kyle thought he would at first glance. Kyle lifts his legs up onto Stan's back, crossing his ankles and shimmying until he's got his prostate angled against the head of Stan's dick.

“Fuck me right there,” Kyle says, his eyes locked on Stan's. He can feel Stan's heartbeat against his chest, pounding. “Hard.” 

He isn't sure how many thrusts it takes; he loses the ability to count and shouts Stan's name when he comes all over himself, his fingers digging into Stan's biceps. Stan fucks him through it, kissing him sloppily until he's coming, too, huffing a sad little noise against Kyle's mouth before he flops down onto him, still trembling all over. Kyle puts his arms around Stan and sighs into his hair, his legs still cinched tightly around Stan's back. He doesn't want to let Stan go, and this time he doesn't have to. 

“God,” Stan says, twitching in Kyle's arms. “Kyle.” 

“Yeah?”

“I don't know. I love saying your name. Like this, in you like this, saying your name – fuck, sorry. I ramble after I come.”

“That's so sweet,” Kyle says, pressing his grin into Stan's hair. “How does your sweat smell so good? What are you wearing?”

“Nothing, um. Soap? Shave lotion?” 

“What kinds?” Kyle wants to know everything. “Brands, I mean.” 

Stan laughs and sits up to touch his nose to Kyle's. His eyes are bright again, clear and shining like the sky after a storm. Kyle has never seen him smile like this before, but he feels like he knew it was in there somewhere, waiting for him and the right moment. 

“That's the weirdest thing anyone's ever said to me after sex,” Stan says. 

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. What brands? I don't know. Suave, and, uh. Heliotrope, I think it's called? The shave lotion. Some fancy thing Wendy got me for my birthday last year.” 

They clean up a little with one of Kyle's bath towels, then flop onto the bed again. It's warm in the room, pleasantly so once the sweat on their skin cools, and they cuddle up at the center of the bed, kissing and rubbing their ankles and knees together with fidgety joy. Kyle feels like a kid again, but not in a bad way. 

“Only one person knows I kissed you that summer,” Kyle says. 

“Eric?”

“No! God, no. Bebe. She might be a little surly when she sees you, but I think you'll grow on her fast. Oh, Stan, just. Who couldn't love you?” He runs his fingers through Stan's hair and stops himself from saying it too soon: _I do, I love you, me most of all_. 

“I don't blame her for thinking I'm a bastard, if she knows about the kiss,” Stan says. “I still can't believe I did that. I remember thinking the whole time, I can't do this, I'm not doing it, but I was, I was already kissing you, and you just. You had this wide open heart, and it was right there. You kept putting it in my stupid hands. I was such a selfish asshole, I knew I couldn't have it, but I wanted to hold it and keep it safe.”

“You did,” Kyle says, and his eyes water again, but only because Stan's are wet. He kisses Stan's eyelids and they both sniffle a little. “You did,” Kyle says again, whispering it now. “I'm so safe with you. I've always known that.” 

“I guess it's fucked up,” Stan says, “'Cause I'm older than you, but. I always sort of felt the same way with you.”

“Oh, god,” Kyle says, and he closes his eyes. “That's the best thing anyone's ever told me. If I made you feel – like that – like this – it's the best thing I've ever done.” 

They talk for a long time before they have sex again, and this time Stan lasts longer. Kyle doesn't, but he comes twice before Stan finishes. He almost falls asleep after that, curled against Stan's chest and muttering questions about the wedding that Stan is playing at tomorrow, fighting his oncoming nap as hard as he can. They hear the front door open and Bridon walking in, talking to a girl. 

“We should get dressed, I guess,” Stan says. Kyle yawns and nods but doesn't move. Stan just keeps stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, and leaving his arms seems wonderfully impossible. Just as Kyle decides it's okay to fall asleep for a little while, someone throws the door of the room open. 

“Ky-- oh!”

It's Bebe, and it takes Kyle a few panicked seconds to recognize this as Stan sits up in front of him and attempts to shield his nakedness. Bebe's hair is different, much shorter than the last time Kyle saw her. She looks like Tinkerbell, and her eyes are huge. 

“Sorry!” she says, and she flees, shutting the door behind her. “Bridon let me in!” she says, from the other side of the door. “I'm sorry!” 

“It's okay,” Kyle says. He kisses Stan's cheek. “That's Bebe,” he says.

“Yeah, I.” Stan is very red, still shielding Kyle. “I recognized her.”

They dress and emerge a few minutes later. Bebe and Bridon are in the kitchen drinking beers, and Bridon is the only one who isn't blushing feverishly. Kyle isn't even embarrassed, just overwhelmed with a giddy relief that he can't fan off is face. He hugs Bebe hard and she laughs, rubbing his back.

"Your hair is short," Kyle says.

"Yeah. Surprise!" 

"It looks good, I like it--"

"You smell like sex," she whispers. She releases Kyle and turns to Stan, who is still bright red. "Hey!" Bebe says. "It's you! Wow!"

"It's -- yeah," Stan says. "Hi, I'm. It's great to see you, um--" 

"I knew you two were a thing," Bridon says, narrowing his eyes and gesturing to Stan and Kyle with his beer. "Stan denied it, but I could tell."

"How?" Stan asks, and when he puts his hand out Kyle realizes Stan is reaching for him, wanting to stand united within this awkward moment. Kyle hurries to him and stands close, smiling as subtly as he can when Stan's hand comes to rest on the small of his back.

"I don't know what it was exactly," Bridon says. "Just this nervous energy. I've never seen Stan like that around a guy. Usually he's not impressed by anything. But around this guy, your friend here?" He's talking to Bebe, pointing to Kyle. "Stan got all stammery, like a kid with a crush."

"Aw," Bebe says. 

"Were you two knocking boots at summer camp?" Bridon asks, and Stan's hand clenches into the back of Kyle's t-shirt.

"No!" Stan says. "Jesus!"

"They kissed," Bebe says to Bridon, grinning like suddenly she finds that adorable. "Once." 

"I basically assaulted him," Kyle says. He puts his hand on Stan's chest, feels his heart beating hard.

"It was -- you didn't," Stan says, and he looks over at Kyle. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, the red on his cheeks fading a little. "We had bad timing back then, obviously," Stan says, and he gives Bebe an apologetic look. "But now it's pretty good." 

"I'll say," Bebe says, turning to glance at the apartment. "Kyle! Holy crap! This place is great!" 

The four of them end up going out to dinner together at the same pasta restaurant where Kyle had an early dinner with Stan after their day in the park. The place is much more crowded on Saturday night, but the wait for a small table for four is worth it. Kyle is practically in Stan's lap, Stan's arm draped around the back of his chair, his chest warm under Kyle's shoulder. They hold hands under the table while Kyle and Bebe tell stories about camp. Bebe is laughing a lot, and the new haircut really suits her. Bridon flirts with her the entire time, and she gives him long looks and little smiles. Kyle longs to be alone with Stan but is glad to see Bebe happy, and he appreciates the way Bridon humors their old stories, listening with interest when they reminisce about Clyde and Henrietta.

"I can't believe Clyde married someone else," Bebe says. Kyle snorts.

"Bebe, he had sex with Henrietta for like, two days. They weren't engaged." 

"I know, but you guys only kissed once, and here you are." 

Kyle gives her a look, embarrassed on Stan's behalf, but he doesn't seem perturbed, maybe because he'd had several glasses of red wine. He rubs Kyle's shoulder and laughs under his breath. Kyle knows he's tired from all the moving day hefting, and he's a little annoyed when they get back to the apartment and Bridon and Bebe want to drink more and break out some party games. 

"I'm crashing," Kyle says, shaking his head. "My new bed awaits." 

"Do you need some sheets?" Bridon asks. 

"I have my dirty ones from Berkeley," Kyle says, yawning. 

"I'll get you some," Stan says. "I know where he keeps them." 

Kyle nods and goes into his new room, where the lamp that Stan plugged in earlier is still glowing on the dresser. He smiles and touches the shade as he walks past, brushes his teeth and collapses onto the unmade bed. He's thinking about his twenty-first birthday, having a picnic in the park with Stan, maybe inviting Bebe and Bridon. He can hear them both laughing out in the main room, talking loudly, but he's tired enough that he's not worried about his ability to sleep through whatever noise they make. He only wakes a little when he hears footsteps padding into the room, the door closing softly. He's so out of it that it takes him a moment to remember that it's Stan: Stan is here with him, after all this time, still willing to hold Kyle's heart every time Kyle pushes it hopefully back into his hands.

Stan rests the sheets on the end of the bed, and Kyle hears him turn off the lamp. He moans happily when Stan unties his shoes for him and slides them off. A champagne cork pops out in the apartment somewhere, but it seems very far away, and Kyle feels like his new bed is a raft and he's floating farther and father from shore. The whole room seems to have transformed into the bubble he once shared with Stan. Kyle always pictured it with a slightly periwinkle hue. 

"You asleep?" Stan whispers as he settles down onto the bed, curling around Kyle from behind. 

"No," Kyle says. "Yes."

Stan laughs and tucks his face to the back of Kyle's neck, pulling his knees in behind Kyle's. The summer is just beginning, and this time he's starting it from his 'after' picture. He and Stan have both become the people they were trying to be for each other back then, before they knew how. 

"I'm so tired," Kyle says, wishing he was awake enough to express that he means this in a good way. The pleasure of complete physical exhaustion was something he learned the summer he met Stan, and he never thought he'd be lucky enough to count the kind of sex they had in this bed among the daily activities that wore him out. 

"Me too," Stan says. He kisses the back of Kyle's neck three times, moving downward slowly, toward the neck of his t-shirt. "I like this bed. Very nice choice." 

"Mhmm, yeah, good. I want you in it a lot."

He can feel Stan's smile on his skin, and his tired little laugh. He'll never forget the first summer that he cuddled in bed with another boy, the revelation of being close to someone like this, and how it felt just as important as his first time sex in that locker room. Eric will call on Kyle's birthday; he always does. Kyle will explain about Stan somehow. Eric should hear it from him directly, and sooner rather than later, because Kyle can tell by the way Stan holds him: starting tomorrow and from now on, everyone they meet will know how well they fit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> This story is finally done! I am so grateful to those who have been reading since the beginning and to everyone who has checked it out, left notes and sent encouragement. This one was hard for me to write, and I feel like it took me three times longer than a chapter story usually does, but I'm glad I did it, because I've had so many supportive and thoughtful comments and exchanges about this story since November of last year. Thank you again to everyone who's made it this far, and please let me know your thoughts if you have some on the final installment!


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